Blind World
by NightWolfMoon
Summary: Gabe is trying to get his life back together after 19 years in prison. Ivy has come to accept that her best friend has moved on from this world. Charlie is doing her best to move on from a horrible childhood. Toby hates his brother and wants to protect Charlie from him. Jo wants to move past tragedy and rekindle an old flame. And there's a serial killer loose in Denver.
1. New Start

**Chapter 1: New Start  
****Monday, 21 March 2039 - Gabe**

"_One can begin so many things with a new person! - even begin to be a better man." - George Eliot_

For some reason, people just didn't like having ex-felons serving them their coffee or pancakes, so Gabe was subjected to busboy duty as well as janitor duty. He guessed he couldn't complain. It was a job, and it helped pay towards rent for his shoe box of an apartment that had seemed to attract cockroaches and ant for the first month he lived there. (He swore he still felt those damn things crawling over his legs and arms when he slept.) Jake had offered Gabe stay with him and Heather for a few more months, or even a year. The couple (with three daughters) had a well-sized house, and Maya swore she didn't mind giving up her room.

_Taking her chestnut hair with highlights of deep red out of the ponytail she had put it into the morning, Maya smiled at Gabe as he packed, no longer seeming so shy around him. The oldest Ross child at fourteen years of age, she knew the specifics of what Gabe had done, whereas her younger sisters, who were seven-year-old twins, only knew that he had been in jail for doing something really bad. _

_Jake and Heather had argued over what exactly their youngest girls should know. Jake had said they should begin learning early about how bad life can be, but Heather had wanted to keep them sheltered for a few more years, not wanting them to start thinking that such a crime should be condoned. It'd been Gabe that had come up with a compromise._

"_You could simply tell them I did something very_, very _bad. They're seven, not three, so they must know what prison is." Gabe had turned towards Heather, finding it difficult to meet those tawny eyes so full of suspicion. "But as they ask questions, ease them into it, and then explain that I'm trying to find forgiveness, like they learn in Sunday school."_

_It had been the mention of Sunday school that had made Heather ease up and nod in agreement. She hadn't enjoyed having a murderer in her house, but she had known Gabe since fourth grade (had even had the biggest crush on him in fifth grade), and she had slowly eased up around him, even allowing him to baby-sit._

_Maya's voice brought Gabe out of his thoughts about those first few days. "I kinda like sharing with Emma. Adrian even gets bored or scared and comes to join us, so it's almost like a slumber party." She laughed, azure eyes with dots of brown sparkling in mirth._

_Giving a chuckle, Gabe stuck his large, heavily-callused hands into the pockets of his jeans. "That's very nice of you, Maya, but I have enough money saved up that I can start renting out an apartment not too far from where I work."_

_Eyes going to the wooden floor, Maya traced an unseen pattern with her big toe, hands clasped behind her back. "Will you come visit?" Her voice was soft, unsure._

_Thin lips stretching into a grin, Gabe gave a nod. "Of course."_

It had been nice staying there for fifteen months, helping out with cleaning, cooking, and watching the "twin terrors" on occasion. Jake had been able to help Gabe find his job at the diner, which was owned by Leo. Gabe had chuckled upon finding out that "Leo's Amazing Lemonade" was the signature drink at the diner, the poster behind the counter having brought back carefree memories. Leo, having not spoken to Gabe since they were thirteen, hadn't been very sure about hiring him at first, but Jake had vouched for him, and Leo's wife, Rosaria had told him to "give the poor man a chance."

While balancing a tray of coffee and oatmeal, Rosaria had said, "It's not like you're gonna lose any customers for having him. Who on Earth is going to remember him right off the bat anyway?"

She had then muttered in Spanish before plastering on a smile and taking the tray out to one of the booths.

Leo had agreed with his wife, taking Gabe on as a busboy and saying he might be able to move up to cook in a few years if he stuck with the job. Gabe also mopped and cleaned the bathrooms as well as washed the dishes, but Leo paid him fairly and was a good boss, the two actually beginning to catch up again. It was almost like no time had been lost, but certain subjects had remained off-limits.

Today was just like any other, Gabe picking up mostly-empty mugs and plates before rearranging the condiments and wiping down the table. His dark hair was slicked back, only a few strands sliding over his high forehead. Breakfast would be available for another hour, and then the usual lunch rush would be expected not long afterwards. It was great how Leo's diner was so successful, and Gabe was happy to see that his old friends had done well.

"Gabriel," Rosaria called, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of strawberry waffles and a peppermint hot chocolate. "Wash the dishes before the rush, _por favor_."

The thirty-six-year-old woman's voice still held a bit of a Mexican accent, and her long, raven hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, the ringlets sweeping over her lower back.

"Sure thing, Rosa." Gabe smiled, earning one back. He then headed for the back of the kitchen and got to work. It would be just nine more hours before he could clock out and meet Jo at a nearby Prophecy Café.

As it neared the time that Gabe could leave, he hurried with the rest of the dishes while still making sure to keep the cleaning thorough. A smile graced his face, exhausted eyes taking on a glint Carlos noticed as he headed back towards the stove to fill out an order.

"Got a hot date?" the forty-five-year-old teased, lips curving into a smirk. His dark eyes sparkled, making the younger man shake his head lightly.

"Just meeting up with an old almost-girlfriend."

"_Almost_?" The man's thick brows shot up towards his hairline. His dark locks were pulled back into a ponytail tucked into his required hairnet. "She still single?"

"Last I heard, she was dating Brad Culpepper, a rich hotshot lawyer."

"Three words that usually equal one: Asshole."

Spraying a plate with hot water, Gabe laughed.

"Which means you have a chance. She ever visit you?"

"A few times. She wanted to be there for me, but I could tell she hated having to look at me through Plexiglas. So I told her that we should wait until I was out to meet again." Gabe's smile faltered.

"You've been out for a while," Carlos pointed out.

Stacking plates and cups, Gabe sighed and nodded. "Yeah, but it always seemed too soon. Finally, I just sucked it up and called her."

"Good luck with her." Carlos clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, thick mustache shifting at the motion. He then left to go fill the orders. "_¡Cállate, Rosa_! I'm coming!"

Soon, Gabe was leaving the diner, chuckling as Mabel, the hostess gave him a hug good-bye. Everyone waved as he left, Carlos giving a thumbs-up and a wink, making the other man shake his head again as he headed towards the café four blocks away. The sun was setting, the sky splashed with deep yellows, oranges, and magentas. The blue was darkening and currently looked like cobalt as it slowly faded to the near-black background for the diamond stars rarely seen due to all of the lights in the city. Remnants of slush from the snow two nights ago stuck to corners along the sides of the walk and along the curb. The air was cool and crisp; Gabe breathed it in deeply.

The giant window that gazed into the café showed pictures of Tarot cards, playing cards, rune stones, and tea cups turned to show the leaves forming ambiguous shapes at the bottom. It was a café that had first popped up in Seattle a little over a decade ago and now had franchises all over the US and Canada.

Looking through the window, Gabe saw a woman with long, ash brown hair with amber highlights brought out by the lighting. There were even strands of grey weaving through her hair by the temples. She frowned at her large cup, unblinking. She was still very beautiful, just frazzled- and stressed-looking. She was young to start having so many grey hairs, but both of her parents had begun to grey early, and if the look on her face meant anything, near-constant stress had likely added to those genes.

Taking a deep breath, Gabe entered the café, heading for the round table not far from the divination room, next to the bar attached to the counter.

"Hey, Jo." He tried for a smile, but he suspected that it looked more like a grimace.

The woman pushed a second cup of coffee towards him. "Americano. Black." She was still looking at her own drink—likely a caramel macchiato if her taste hadn't changed in all this time. "Took you long enough, stupid."

He knew she wasn't talking about the walk from his work. The coffee was only a couple degrees above lukewarm, but it helped wake him up and gave him a few seconds before having to answer.

"How are you doing, Jo? Are you still with Brad?"

Jo flinched and took a sip of her coffee, trying to cover it up. "Fine. No, we broke up years ago."

Finally she looked up at him. Her eyes looked tired. They were that same dull brown that Gabe had once described as wet sand mixed with mud—a comment that had earned him paste in his hair.

"I'm sorry about that."

"I'm not." Jo took another gulp. "So what took you so long?" She pulled her hair back, using one of the bands on her left wrist to keep it in a ponytail, the split ends hanging several inches past her tiny waist.

"Just trying to get back on my feet." Gabe accepted the crumpet Jo pushed towards him. "You don't like me getting mushy, and I don't think you want to vomit here." He tried to keep his tone light, but he was sure his lips had only succeeded in twisting into another grimace.

"Whatever." She took a bite of her slice of raspberry cheesecake. "What up with the scar?"

Stretching from Gabe's right temple to just past the corner of his right eye was the raised skin showing off where that punk Rodney had attacked him with a shank. It was only one of several scars, but it was the one people often noticed first. He'd gotten it a couple of months after Jo's last visit. He still remembered the crazed look in Rodney's dark eyes, limp hair falling over his long face. Gabe could have lost his eye that day, but he had to be honest: He couldn't even remember how the fight had started.

"Idiot that should have been in the nut house instead of juvie." Gabe was almost half-way done with his coffee and took a bite of the crumpet.

"Ah." She looked down at her slice of cheesecake, which was half-way finished. "So… you told me you got a job. You like it?"

"It's fine. I just clean all day, but Leo pays well."

She nodded.

"And you?" He took another bite of the crumpet. "You teach karate like you wanted to?"

"Not anymore. Now, I'm a… masseuse." She said it softly, as if embarrassed. "It pays well." She sniffed and rubbed her nose before wiping her hands on a napkin and draining the rest of her macchiato. "This is really awkward isn't it?" This time, it was her trying to fight her bow-shaped lips into a smile. Only, it looked more like a straight line almost turned into a frown, like her mouth had forgotten how to smile.

"Yeah." Gabe managed a chuckle, eyes on his coffee. "I know we said we could try and pick things up again after I got out if you weren't seeing anyone, but it looks like we're going to have to settle for just talking for a while before we start dating."

Jo's lips curved into something closer to a smile. "Yeah."

"That is if you wouldn't mind dating a murderer," Gabe softly joked, though his tone fell flat.

Lips twisted in a grimace, Jo's eyes went down to her empty cup, shimmering as she fought tears. "If _you_ don't mind dating one, then I don't, either."

**_I hope you guys liked the first chapter of "Blind World". Make sure to pay attention to the dates, as there will be chapters that will take place in the past with certain characters. I hope y'all will enjoy reading this story. :) Please tell me what you think._**


	2. Double Murder

**Chapter 2: Double Murder  
****Wednesday, 23 March 2039 – Deeandra**

"_It is easier to commit murder than to justify it." - Aemilius Papinianus_

Exhaling sharply, Deeandra killed the engine of her dark blue Constellation and then finished her grande vanilla latte. She buttoned up her dark green coat and got out of the car, sticking the keys into her pocket as she brought out the pad of paper and her favorite pen. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, the tips hanging at the base of her neck, caught in the collar of her knee-length coat. Her blunt bangs brushed along her eyelashes made thick and long by mascara, liner making her moss green eyes seem larger than they were. She had a long stride, spine erect and shoulders back. Even at only about five-foot-six, Deeandra Hardt (neé Dooley) had a very commanding air and was known as one of the best homicide detectives in Denver.

"Hardt." Heglin offered Deeandra a nod when she ducked under the police tape with the help of Officer Jones.

The woman of twenty-seven years nodded in thanks to the redhead before turning to the wiry CSI. He held a camera, and his black plastic-framed glasses were beginning to slide down the bridge of his flat nose.

"'Morning, Heglin. How's Tori?"

"Well, and she's given up on the hope that I'll get switched to day shift."

"She stop calling you a vampire yet?" A corner of Deeandra's wide mouth quirked up into a smile. She only stood just over the older man's shoulder even in her heels.

Heglin led the detective into the two-story home, chuckling as he ran a large hand over his shortly-cut hair, which had strands of grey dotting along the black. "Nah, not anymore. Well, not _much_, anyway." He gave a chuckle as he stepped aside and motioned for Deeandra to enter the house first. His tone then turned serious, dark eyes flashing. "We got a double, just like the McGee case three years ago."

The front door led straight into a spacious den, the coffee table on an oriental-style rug was overturned, and a high-backed chair had been knocked over, one of the legs broken off. Magazines and books littered the floor, and on the floor between the table and the television as a woman with bright blue eyes opened wide in terror that had been dulled with the loss of her life. Her arms were spread out to the sides, legs together—almost like she were getting prepped for a cross before the murderer changed his mind and left. The woman's shoulder length, pale blonde hair was spread around her head like a halo, and her full, bright red lips were parted in a scream that had died long ago.

Brow furrowing, Deeandra forced her to take everything in, watching as the coroner leaned over the body, bending her right arm at the elbow. Behind him, his assistant, newly out of college, was taking notes, looking nervous. Deeandra knew him pretty well—this was only his second murder, and it wasn't getting any easier. It never would.

"Talk to me, Calloway."

Dark brown hair falling into his hazel eyes, Derek Calloway sighed before reporting, "The rigor's nearly full, so she died about eleven hours ago, almost twelve."

"So about seven last night." Deeandra jotted this down into her note pad. "C.O.D.?"

"I found a blow to the back of her head," Calloway moved the victim's head slightly, waiting for the detective to walk around to see the dark red and brown marring the silvery locks, "but I don't think it was fatal. It looks more like something just to knock her out. There's some defensive wounds on her arms, though."

"What about this wound to her side?" Deeandra motioned to the hole just below the rib cage.

"It looks like it was done post-mortem, likely with a large knife."

"Which we have not found in the house," Heglin said.

Deeandra gave a sharp nod. This was sounding all-too familiar. It had been her first case, heart dropping to her stomach when she found the woman with honey-colored hair and crystal blue eyes spread on the floor of the den like she had been crucified. Upstairs, Deeandra had found her husband, and she had nearly vomited, having to leave the room for a moment. She was getting herself ready for it this time, but she first needed to collect the names of the deceased, those that had found the body, and statements of neighbors, who were now crowding around the police tape outside, wide-eyed, confused, shocked, and terrified. Of course, most of that terror wasn't for the murdered couple. It was because it could have been _them_.

Stepping around the body and stopping next to a magazine, Deeandra met Heglin's eyes. "Fill me in."

As the tall man went through his own notes, Calloway and Ford talked amongst themselves.

"Her name's Mildred Schwartz," said Heglin, "age thirty-four, married for eight years, and has two children: Zachary, age seven, and Elliot, age four. Upstairs is the husband, Dallas Schwartz, age thirty-nine." He looked up from his notes, meeting Deeandra's eyes. "You think it's the same guy?"

Deeandra's eyes went back to the body as it was being covered as two men brought in a stretcher. "I don't want it to be, but it definitely looks like it."

**xxx**

The files were spread over Deeandra's desk, brow furrowed and deep-set eyes narrowed. The corners of her mouth were dipped in a small frown as she read over everything for the nth time. Both Mildred "Millie" Schwartz and Caroline McGee had died from an injection of cicutoxin. The only thing different was the blow to Mildred's head.

Caroline had been suspected to have been injected while asleep, due to lack of defensive wounds as well as the estimated time of death—midnight. This time, it had been around seven at night, likely right after dinner. There had been no sign of forced entry, which had made Heglin first think that Mildred knew the killer. However, a neighbor informed Deeandra that "Millie" had often left the doors unlocked when she was home and had even been known to forget to lock them when leaving or going to bed. Anyone could have gotten in without any trouble.

Both Dallas Schwartz and Nickolas McGee had been beaten to death while their wives convulsed and died.

Shaking her head, Deeandra took a sip of the coffee she'd gotten from the break room. It was loaded with non-dairy cream and sugar to make the taste more bearable; Emerson had often teased Deeandra that she probably had more caffeine than blood in her veins.

"_Just focus, Dee-Dee."_

Whenever Deeandra needed to calm down, she heard Emerson's voice in her mind, helping her along.

"_One at a time, Raindrop. Go through the husbands first, then move on to the wives. You'll find this bastard, Dee-Dee. I just know you will."_

Blinking slowly as she exhaled, Deeandra began to feel her muscles uncoil and her expression begin to ease.

_In… out… in… out… _

She kept breathing, focusing white light seeping into her towards an orb of shining light in the middle of her chest. She kept this up until every bit of darkness was driven away, the light in her heart beginning to pulsate. Finally, she felt herself relax into her chair, and she opened her eyes and took in another breath as she took up the files on Dallas Schwartz and Nickolas McGee.

Nickolas had been asleep next to his wife, likely waking up as she began to shiver, moan, and then convulse. A blade had been inserted between the final thoracic vertebrae and the first lumbar vertebrae, disabling the six-foot-five man from the waist down and making it very difficult for him to fight back. There were many contusions over his body, concentrated mainly to his chest, arms, and head, as he could no longer feel any blows to his legs.

However, none of those had been fatal. His suffering had been drawn out, however. Along with the beating, his pale hair, grown almost to his shoulders, had been yanked out lock by lock, thrown aside and causing chunks of skin to be jerked away from the head as well. His lips had been cut away from the face, and wing-like designs had been carved into his back, starting at the shoulder blades, moving up to either side of the neck and then descending down to just above the buttocks.

Finally, Nickolas's throat had been slit, finally ending his torment. He had then been arranged to make it look as if he were kneeling at the bed in prayer. Fishing wire had been used to keep his wrists together, a stand used to keep his arms propped up on the bed at his elbows. His head was bowed, almost in humility. It had been a horrible death, blood covering his head and back and contusions all over his chest and arms. Many of his bones had been broken, and the laceration across his trachea had been very deep.

Dallas's death had been nearly identical, though he had been killed in the kitchen then moved to the bedroom upstairs. He had been significantly smaller than Nikolas, only five-foot-nine. He had weighed about one-hundred-forty pounds, and it looked like a sheet had been used to help the killer drag the body up the stairs. His body had also been cleaned of blood, including his finger and toe nails. All of the hair had been swept up, the room cleaned thoroughly. The sheet had been put through the washer, and the kitchen had been cleaned as well.

As for the women, both had been injected in the left thigh. Both had been taken to the den and spread out in a cross shape. Only Mildred Schwartz had been cleaned, similarly to her husband, likely to hide any DNA she may have picked up from her killer. Once injected, it would not have taken long for the cicutoxin to get to work. She had also been the only one to be stabbed in the side post-mortem. The killer was adding more details.

"_This guy's trying to send some kind of message. Besides the MO, what do they have in common? Come on, Raindrop. I know you can catch him."_

The obvious thing was that all four people had been blonde. Both couples lived in two-story houses and had children. Deeandra wanted to know where these people went, if they had anything in common. Did their kids go to the same school? Same clubs or activities? Did they go to the same place of worship? Go to the same stores? What connected them? If Deeandra could find that, she would be taking a large step towards finding this sick bastard.

Then, there were the way the bodies had been positioned. A hairless angel kneeling by the bed in prayer. A woman positioned the same way as Jesus of Nazareth on the cross. Mildred had been stabbed in the side. How long before there were nails found in the hands and feet? Before a crown of thorns? An actual cross?

How many more would there be?

Three years passed between the killings. Why so long? To Deeandra, it spoke of patience and meticulousness on the killer's part. He was highly intelligent, careful, observant, and precise. Three knives were estimated to have been used: one to disable the man, one to carve the wings, and one to slice through his windpipe. The killer was thought to have picked the lock of the back door of the McGee house, scratches around the deadbolt keyhole adding to that suspicion.

What else?

Prayer. Angel. Cross. Christ.

Salvation.

Redemption.

Forgiveness.

What was this guy trying to say? Many serial killers had problems as children, especially with the mother (Freud, eat your heart out). Could the guy have had a traumatizing moment at church? An ultra-conservative Christian mother and/or father?

Deeandra didn't think anything gave him the right to do any of this, and most felt that the why didn't matter as much as the whom. However, Deeandra felt that knowing _why_ the killer murdered could lead her to _who_ exactly this person was.

"_Not everyone is completely evil, Dee-Dee."_

She'd be the first to argue that.

"_Of course you would, but think about this guy's MO. Maybe he wants to be forgiven for something."_

So he _killed_ people?

"_Who ever said these nut cases made any sense? Nothing is completely senseless, but that doesn't always mean _we_ can make sense of it."_

With a sharp exhale, Deeandra gathered the files. As she did, Heglin appeared in the door.

"Hardt."

"Yeah." She stood up straight and smoothed down her turquoise top. The sleeves ended just above her elbows, and she still wore her leather gloves.

"The parents are here."

"Children brought in?"

"With their grandparents, wondering what had happened to their parents."

Deeandra nodded. This was always difficult. Having the investigator coming up to the doorstep, hat off and eyes full of sympathy and guilt for having to be the one to deliver such news. The children had been at a sleepover since last night, as it had been the Schwaltzs' anniversary. The parents of the kids' friend had already been interviewed.

"Coming," Deeandra said, cracking her back and neck before following Heglin into the interrogation room.

**_As I've said, pay attention to the dates, and to the characters as well. All these different stories intertwine, and many details will be revealed along the way. And yeah, I know Dee-Dee was blonde in the show, but she was a baby, and it's common for babies' hair to darken as they get older. Anyway, I hope you like how she's turned out after all these years, and I hope y'all are enjoying the story so far. :) Please let me know what you think._**


	3. Flowers

**Chapter 3: Flowers  
Thursday, 24 March 2039 – Ivy**

"_He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

As always, there were white roses and Queen Anne's lace placed in front of the tomb stones, nearly swallowing the three sunflowers Ivy placed on Teddy's and the small bouquet of daisies she placed on PJ's. There were now also two candles at the feet of the two graves. They were white votives in glass containers. They had already burned down to just a thin layer of wax, probably placed here early in the day.

"Hey, Ivy."

Turning, Ivy saw Emmett coming towards her. He was dressed in jeans and an unbuttoned sweater. The scarf around his neck had black and golden-yellow stripes. Teddy had knitted it (Ivy's mom had shown her how) as a way to shut Emmett up at some point in high school—something about him wanting a graduation gift from his "one true love".

"You realize it's forty degrees, right?" Ivy had meant for her comment to be snide, but her tone had fallen flat. She messed with her red gloves and then retied the sash of her coat, which hung at the top of her calf-high boots. Her hands went into her pockets, the faux leopard fur lining her hood tickling her neck.

"I only slept for six hours this week. I'm surprised I remembered my _pants_." Emmett walked up to stand next to Ivy, standing three inches taller than her height of five-foot-eight. He placed blue violets on PJ's grave and viscaria on Teddy's. "How's Raymond?"

"Very well. How about Tori?"

"Still wishes I'd get switched to day shift, but she's stopped bothering me about it. Raymond works swing at St. Paul Medical, right?"

"Yeah. Tori still teaching?"

"Yep." A smile finally graced Emmett's voice, as it always did when he spoke of his wife of eleven years. "She has the voice of an angel, probably even better than…" The smile faltered.

"You never told me what that flower is." Ivy pointed to the long stem with little purple blooms climbing up it in clusters.

"Viscaria," Emmett answered. "I used to put a rose, but Tori used to study the language of the flowers, and she said that viscaria means 'May I have this dance?'. It reminded me of all the times I kept trying to get Teddy to go out with me. She'd probably slap me for choosing that flower, but she'd be laughing on the inside."

"That she would," Ivy chuckled. Her dark eyes lit up as she did so, her coffee-colored skin becoming a little more radiant.

A corner of Emmett's mouth quirked upwards in a half-smile. The two had long-since come to terms with their friends' deaths, knowing that both would haunt them if they dared mourn for too long. Those two would want their lives to be remembered and celebrated, not their deaths overshadowing everything else.

**Teddy Rachel Walsh  
July 30, 1994 – April 17, 2033  
Wonderful sister  
"No matter how far into darkness,  
everyone will find the light eventually."**

**Peter John "PJ" Duncan  
February 2, 1993 - April 17, 2033  
Awesome brother  
Faithful Husband  
"Jamin' out in Heaven!"**

"At least that bastard, Spencer, in jail," Emmett said softly.

"Yup." Ivy nodded, expression hard. "He should fry for what he did."

"I agree, but Teddy said herself that anyone will find the light eventually."

"Even in the deepest, darkest depths of hell." Ivy heaved a sigh. "But if you ask me, the only light _they'll_ find is the fire burning their bones to ash before they come back to relive the same torture over and over again for eternity. Like it _should_ be."

**xxx**

It tasted horrible, but Ivy added a teaspoon of lemon juice to her coffee to help her headache. It was late in the evening, just after eight o' clock. She and Emmett had spoken a bit in the graveyard before parting, Emmett saying he should probably try to catch some sleep before heading off to work.

As she sipped her lemon-laced coffee, Ivy flipped through one of Raymond's many medical texts, which could be found all over the house. Ivy had once absolutely loathed reading, but most movies and shows tended to bore her now, and she had never been entertained by video games. So she found herself flipping through books nowadays when there was nothing else to occupy her mind. With all the anatomy, physiology, and medical texts everywhere, she probably knew just as much about medicine as her husband.

"Momma?" Rachel shuffled into the den, and Ivy had to turn in the couch to see her six-year-old girl. Clutched in one hand was the front right paw of Kitti, her stuffed tiger. "Josef won't check my room for monsters." Her plump lips pushed out in a pout. "Can you check to see if there aren't monsters there?"

Setting the text down, Ivy's plump lips curved into a soft smile. "Sure, baby."

After pushing herself off of the cushion, Ivy rounded the end table hold a lamp and a book about the nervous system. She took Rachel's free hand, leading her back to her room at the end of the hallway, on the right. Across the hall was Josef's room, the door only open a crack with a bit of light trickling out into the hallway. Ivy could hear the keys of his laptop clicking, and alternative rock could be heard, though the volume, thankfully, was low enough that it wouldn't bother his little sister as she tried to sleep.

Rachel's room was covered in pinks, reds, and whites, always reminding Ivy of Valentine's Day whenever she came in here. In the center of the room on a large, pink fur rug was a mattress with blush-colored sheets and a red comforter full of white heart and pink flower designs, and there was a slew of all kinds of pillows, including a large one off to one side that lit up when squeezed. Rachel didn't like her bed being any higher than just a mattress on the floor, as she had always been just completely terrified of falling off and hurting herself or a monster hiding beneath it. So the gold-and-white frame had been given away to a neighbor, and Rachel had finally begun sleeping through the night.

"Up we go," said Ivy, grunting as she picked up her young daughter and turned on the light.

Having inherited Ivy's body type, Rachel was pretty heavy, and she had been picked up from school with tears in her grey eyes due to other children teasing her about her weight. Having gone through the exact same thing at that age, Ivy had given the same advice she had gotten from Nana Walsh: "The next time one of those little devils makes fun of you for something like that, take the heaviest book you got and _whack_ him with it as _hard_ as you can."

Also like Ivy at that age, Rachel had quite the arm as well and had ended up getting called in to the principal's office for hitting a little too far south of the border. But, hey! At least the school had a new soprano for the kids' choir!

After setting Rachel onto the mattress, Ivy walked over to the closet, which was to the right, by the back wall. It was long and pretty shallow with accordion doors that didn't shut quite right due to all the things the little girl kept trying to stuff into it when she was supposed to clean her room. Clothes littered the floor, mixed with toys; old posters Rachel had gotten bored of seeing on her wall but didn't want to throw out; picture books; and some decks of cards that had come from various places, including Kareem, Raymond's father. He'd been trying to teach Rachel poker.

Why, Ivy had no idea, but Rachel absolutely idolized her grandfather and had been trying to learn, the two often using lollypops, mini chocolate bars, and cookies as betting chips.

"I don't see anything in here, except stuff you need to clean up on Saturday," Ivy informed her daughter, closing the doors as best she could.

"You sure, Momma?" Rachel hugged Kitti close to her chest, wrinkling her fleece, button-up pajama top. It was pink with snowflakes, looking odd with the light blue, silky bottoms with stars, moons, and clouds printed on them. (Rachel claimed her pink bottoms to have been stolen my brownies, but Ivy suspected them to be somewhere in that "Closet of Doom".)

"Yes, baby, I'm sure."

Ivy moved on to the desk pushed up against the back wall. It was a couple of inches away from the corner across from the closet, and this, too, was cluttered with junk. Next to the desk was a Disney princess backpack that said _Dreams do come true_ in beautiful cursive above Princess Jasmine, Cinderella, and Tiana. All around were stuffed animals, some dolls, and loose papers from past assignments. Still on the desk was an open spelling book, probably from Rachel studying for her test tomorrow.

Next came the dresser, and then Ivy had to look behind the full-length, oval-shaped mirror next to the door. Once Rachel was satisfied that no monsters were waiting for her, she shimmied under her sheets and comforter and smiled as her mother tucked her in. Her curls spread around her head like a halo. Still around her neck was an apple-shaped locket that had _Friends_ carved into the back of it. Her friend Cecilia had _Best_ carved into her matching locket, and Ravin had _Forever_ carved into hers.

"Good night, sweetie." Ivy grinned, Rachel beaming back at her.

"Night-night, Momma!"

After a hug and a kiss, Ivy got up, making sure Rachel turned on her night light pillow before she turned off the light and closed the door behind her. She then knocked lightly on Josef's door.

"Come in." The respond came after a moment, the boy sounding distracted.

Entering the room, Ivy found Josef sitting at his desk, which was next to the twin-sized bed pushed into the back corner. The music had switched to rap, Josef's toe tapping as he typed out his paper for what looked like English. On his desk was _Life of Pi_, and his history book was open on his bed. Like Ivy, he tended to wait until the last minute to do all of his work. The essay was likely due tomorrow, and there was probably a history test tomorrow as well. It looked like there was also going to be a math test as well as one for science. Procrastination was a bad habit both Ivy and Raymond have tried repeatedly to get Josef to quit, but seeing as he was an _A_ student, procrastination apparently worked for him.

"How come you refused to check Ellie's room for monsters?" Ivy inquired.

Usually, Josef was fairly patient with his younger sister, going along with her beliefs in the supernatural and even feeding them every so often, using stories from what he had learned about Greek, Roman, or Egyptian mythology in school.

Raymond didn't like that Rachel's mind was being filled with so many fantasies and superstitions, but Ivy argued that it was harmless. (Well, when the girl wasn't blaming things on gnomes, brownies, or púcas.)

Josef still faced his laptop. "I have to study." He saved his work before turning around at the waist. He wasn't as skinny as his biological father, Emmett, but he wasn't large, either, already building muscle from the exercises his soccer coach and taekwondo instructor made him go through. "Besides, I already told her that there's a guardian angel in her room watching over her and keeping away all the monsters and evil spirits. I told her she just needs to have faith that her angel will take care of everything so that she can stay strong."

Ivy rubbed at her temples. "Well, at least it's an angel this time, and not… what was that name, Est-something?"

"Hestia," Josef corrected. "Sorry, Momma. I'd been studying Ancient Greek mythology for almost a month. I swear, once I even said 'Oh my gods', as in _plural_."

"I'm not gonna end up having to talk to your Sunday school teacher too, am I?" She'd already had a chat with Rachel's a few months ago—something about Rachel asking how God could have children when He wasn't married.

"Oh God—"

Ivy's eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline stopped him in mid-sentence.

Josef looked up for a moment. "Sorry." He turned his large, dark eyes back onto his mother. "Please don't." He ran a hand over his short-cut, black hair. "She went off her rocker when Courtney asked about possibly praying to the _saints_ along with God. She'd probably shove a Bible down my throat if she found out about that."

Exhaling slowly, Ivy shook her head. "Alright, alright. Well, keep studying, but be in bed by nine."

The boy groaned as he leaned over to his bed to flip the page of his history book. "Ugh… no one else my age has a bedtime," he muttered, thick eyebrows knitting in distaste.

"It was agreed you'd be in bed by nine during the school year, then have no bedtime during the summer and on breaks," Ivy reminded. "Then you'll just have a ten-thirty curfew in high school. But if you want, I can always talk to you father about changing that."

Josef hung his head. "No, Momma, it's fine."

"Good." She began to head for his door. "Keep telling your sister that the guardian angel's watching her. She's starting to get to where she's too old for fairy tales, and maybe the angel thing will help her get over them."

"Never too old for fairy tales." Josef smiled, dark eyes sparkling.

"You can be too old to believe they're real," Ivy shot back, returning the smile. "Good night, sweetheart."

"'Night, Momma."

Closing the door until it was open only a crack, Ivy headed back into the den. She picked up a magazine and drank her lemon-coffee, still smiling.

**_Ivy's had a pretty nice life even after tragedy, huh? :) I know some things are still confusing, but I'm keeping a bunch of questions open on purpose. Everything is intertwined, and, I'm trying to keep this as a bit of a mystery as well. What happened with Teddy and PJ will be revealed much later, and the story behind Bob and Amy will come up in the next chapter and will be elaborated on a bit more in chapter 6. I hope that all of you are enjoying the story, though, and will stick with it, trying to guess who the serial killer is. Please tell me your thoughts. :)_**


	4. HateFilled Heart

**Chapter 4: Hate-Filled Heart  
Sunday, 30 April 2033 – Toby**

"_Hating people is like burning down your own house to get rid of a rat." - Henry Emerson Fosdick_

The air was crisp, and light grey clouds that resembled ash from a tray of smoldering cigarettes were smeared over the sky, trying to keep the sun from shining down upon the scene. Many people were gathered to honor the memories of Teddy and PJ Duncan, who had met their untimely deaths just two weeks ago—Easter Sunday.

Of any day a killer could choose, why _Easter_?

Why _them_?

It wasn't fair in the least, and Toby clenched his teeth as his turquoise eyes prickled with tears he refused to set free. His honey-colored hair had been brushed away from his thin face, and his hard gaze was only cut away from the two graves ready for the coffins when he felt someone grasp his hand, which had been curled into a fist.

There on his right was Charlie, who had her other hand over her mouth that was twisted in a way like she felt the need to scream but was using every ounce of will to keep it inside. Her grey-green-blue eyes were misty with tears, trails marking her flushed cheeks. Strands of her sand-colored hair had already escaped her French braid and brushed along her face, the light breeze playing with the strands as if attempting (and failing) to cheer her up. Her braid hung down to between her shoulder blades, and her eyes kept going from the graves to the preacher and back, like she just kept hoping for the names to change and that she kept praying for the preacher to admit to his mistake and tell them that Teddy and PJ were on vacation or something.

It wasn't going to happen. Toby knew that, but his sister had always been fragile. She was three years his elder, but he was taller than her height of five-foot-eight by nearly five inches and had always been the stronger one when they had been shipped from house to house all over Colorado. Aunt Diane hadn't been able to handle them. Grandma Blankenhooper hadn't wanted them, and Grandma Duncan had been unable to care for them due to health and financial issues. Thus, the two had been forced into foster care.

The worst day of Toby's life had been when he and Charlie had been forced to separate when he was seven, her ten. She had been a cute blonde many couples had figured would be the perfect daughter.

She never was.

She'd been traumatized by that horrid night, and the nightmares had refused to leave, keeping her screaming at night and silent around these strangers hoping to become her new parents when they tried to help her. She had refused to speak to any of the therapists as well.

Upon realizing this, she had always been handed back to the system to deal with. Toby had gotten adopted at the age of eleven, and he had begged and pleaded for his new family to adopt Charlie as well, but they had only had the finances for one child, not two. Plus, Charlotte Melanie Duncan had already earned a reputation by then. No one had wanted her.

PJ had been found ineligible for guardianship for a reason Toby had forgotten by now, and the only thing Teddy had been able to do for her little siblings was send them those videos she'd been working on. Those two had done what they could to help both Toby and Charlie. Sometimes Toby had suspicions about that, wondering if there had been _more_ they could have done. He'd discard those thoughts as quickly as they popped up, however. Of _course_ they'd done all they could! Why would they _not_ have?

"It'll all be okay, Charlie," Toby whispered. His sister had been going by Charlotte since grad school—"Charlie" sounded too immature, apparently—but she would always be "Charlie" to him. "They'll catch him."

The woman of twenty-three years gave a shuttering nod and took a deep breath after swallowing. "Y-yeah. H-he's alre-eady i-in cust-o-ody…," she managed.

Toby nodded, but he was already pretty sure about who the murderer _really_ was, and it wasn't Spencer. Barely a year ago, Gabe had been let out of jail and had started parole. That bastard had deserved the needle but had been able to get out of it due to some lawyer with a silver tongue and twelve idiots charged with being Justice's guide dogs. Gabe instead only got nineteen years, and he was able to get parole due to good behavior.

Life was a bitch with no sense of justice.

Justice, herself, was a whiny little bitch that gouged her own eyes out so she wouldn't have to see the hell God had thrown His playthings into.

Fortune was frugal with her gifts and was never fair with the distribution of them. She only provided for the ambitious and greedy. Toby had learned early that honest people only got self-satisfaction, _if_ that.

Death was the Great Equalizer, caring not for status, Fortune, or Fate. He cared only for the souls ripped from the powerless shells holding them, going where the thread pulled him and swinging around his blood-stained blade as a smile stretched across that pale, scarred face.

The large pictures on either side of the podium showed the smiling faces of PJ and Teddy, frozen in time. Toby, Charlie, and Jennifer had all debated on whether they should hold both funerals on the same day, but they had figured that it'd be better for everyone. They didn't want to draw out the mourning any more than it should be, and they knew that the two would have wanted it this way. They may have fought often as kids and teenagers, but they had also been close, always there for the other when needed.

After the preacher, PJ's wife, Jennifer, stepped up to the podium. Her dark brown eyes were red from crying, and her raven hair was limp and lifeless, looking as if she hadn't washed it in a while. She had simply pulled it back in a low ponytail, and her cocoa-colored skin had lost its usual radiance.

"Peter was a wonderful husband," she squeaked. "We… we dated for about three years before he finally proposed, doing so with a song he had written just for me." Her smile was small and strained; her eyes were down and had a faraway glaze to them.

After everyone spoke some words about Teddy and PJ, the coffins had been lowered into the graves, and everyone migrated to the wake held at Charlie's spacious home. Everyone was sharing various memories inside the two-story, Victorian-style house. Toby had been speaking with Ivy and Emmett in the upstairs loft before going down the stairs and out into the hexagon gazebo in the backyard. There was a magnolia tree nearby, and the white-painted gazebo was surrounded by white tulips, lilacs, and lilies of the valley.

Sitting there, Toby stared at the fairly large koi pond with a small waterfall and various plants around it. Toby remembered sitting at the pond a few times in the past, and he almost smiled. He brushed some strands of his hair out of his face, barely noticing when Charlie sat next to him. She had taken her braid down, her hair now in waves flowing over her bare shoulders. It was barely sixty degrees, but to her, this was perfect weather. She had never felt comfortable in heat and had been known to wear tank tops even when snow was dusting the ground.

Crazy Charlie. It fit so well, but, then again, their entire family had always been crazy, so Toby had been told.

"Hey." She looked down at the flowers. "You okay?"

Toby had jumped a bit at her voice, somewhat surprised at her suddenly being at his side, even though he realized he'd already seen her approach. He turned, seeing that her eyes were not as red anymore, but she still had that look telling him that she could burst into tears at any moment.

"I guess," he replied softly.

The two were silent for a bit before Charlie finally brought up the subject her brother had been dreading: "I… didn't see Gabe at the funeral."

"Good." He had been too quick, tone too harsh and full of so much venom, he was somewhat surprised the flowers didn't suddenly wilt. "You know what he did."

She winced. "Yes, I do, but PJ and Teddy still would have wanted him at their funeral." She tried to meet his eyes. "Remember Teddy's headstone?"

"He deserves to burn in hell." Toby wouldn't look at his sister. "Everything that happened to us was because of him. The only reason he wasn't…" He let himself trail off, not wanting to upset Charlie.

"Innocent until proven guilty." But even she sounded doubtful.

_Guilty until proven innocent_, thought Toby as his teeth clenched.

"You think he did it." Her tone was right on the line between question and statement.

"What would have stopped him? A _conscience_?" Toby sneered. Finally, the tears escaped.

"It couldn't have been him." Her voice was soft, even lower than a whisper.

His hands gripped the bench to where his knuckles turned white. "You just don't _want_ to think it was."

Charlie stood up, shoulders shaking and new tears spilling down her cheeks. "It _wasn't_ him. _Spencer_ is the one in jail, no matter how unbelievable it may seem at first," Charlie squeaked. "Toby, you and Gabe are the only family I have _left_. Please don't let me lose _either_ of you."

Getting to his feet, Toby pulled his sister into an embrace and allowed her to sob into his onyx button-up shirt. "Shh…" He lightly rubbed circles over her back. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I'm sorry."

"You were the only… the… only… one th-there for me…," she managed, hiccupping as she cried.

"And I always will be."

That night, Toby went back to his dorm. It was a single, connected to the next room by a shared bathroom. Toby would be graduating in June, and open on his desk was his botany book. Professor Norton was notorious for giving out his tests on Mondays, forcing Toby to study during the weekends. He also needed to work on an essay for British lit and start going over his notes for calculus.

Needing to get his mind off of everything else, he dove right into his work. He didn't want to think about death. He didn't want to think about the justice system or his last living brother. He didn't want to think about anything except for class work. There would be no sleep tonight. Sleep meant dreams. Those dreams would very likely be nightmares, and Toby wasn't sure if he could deal with the torture his subconscious would be sure to throw at him.

Hadn't he suffered enough? Orphaned at five months of age; shuffled from one home to another until the age of eleven; getting separated from Charlie; losing his adoptive father to a heart attack; and now PJ and Teddy.

Did God just _hate_ him?

_Why_?

In one of those videos Teddy had made for Charlie, Gabe had said that Charlie's name should have been "Oops."

Bob and Amy hadn't meant to have her. Toby either. Was that why? But that was crazy.

The whole family had been crazy.

Grunting, Toby threw his botany book at the back wall, where it bounced off and onto his perfectly-made bed. He took a few rapid-fire breaths he'd learned in that required yoga class (it'd been either that, ballet, or aerobics) as he retrieved the book and smoothed down his navy blue comforter. He had to get a grip and keep working. He couldn't change the past, and losing his temper would not help things.

_Life sucks, and then you die._ He flipped his book back open to the correct page. _Weird then that I want to go into a profession where I _save_ lives. _He exhaled sharply as he sat back down at his well-organized desk. _Maybe I just want to prolong the misery of others in hope someone ends up more miserable than me._

**_Poor Toby... He and Charlie had been through a lot - some of which will be brought up in more detail later. I hope y'all are enjoying the story. :3 he last time I tried a mystery-type story was in junior high, and it completely stunk, so I really hope this will keep you reading, guessing, re-guessing, and entertained. :)_**


	5. Many Questions, Few Answers

**Chapter 5: Many Questions, Few Answers  
Thursday, 24 March 2039 – Deeandra**

"_The angels are always near to those who are grieving, to whisper to them that their loved ones are safe in the hand of God." - from _The Angels' Little Instruction Book

Deeandra just stared at the half-empty mug, trying to keep the disgust off of her heart-shaped face. Her hair was down for the moment, still somewhat damp from washing it. Sitting adjacent of her at the oval-shaped table was Meghan, her bow-shaped lips lightly curved into a smile that said, "I'm not going to laugh. You'd hit me if I did."

"It's… s_hit_ coffee," the brunette finally said flatly before looking up at the woman that had been her best friend since elementary school.

Meghan had her orange-red hair pulled back into two braids that came down over her rounded shoulders, the tips curling inches below her collar bone. "You said it was really good. So much, you didn't even need cream, just a half-spoon of sugar."

Her voice was soft, as it usually was. Her emerald eyes were set deep into her freckled, round face, and she looked closer to a freshman in college than a woman nearing thirty. One with two black belts, was working on her third and fourth, and shot almost as well as a sniper to boot. She definitely didn't look like it, but Deeandra would feel perfectly safe with her life in Meghan's hands.

"That was before you told me the beans came out of a weasel's ass," Deeandra replied flatly, still pretty angry. Her temper flared easily, especially when working on a difficult case. If Mother Nature suddenly decided to hand that gift over within the next few days, the people of Denver better watch out. A serial killer would be the _last_ thing on their minds.

"It's really good coffee," Meghan insisted. "You put honey in your tea, and honey's basically just bee vomit."

Deeandra narrowed her large, almond-shaped eyes. "Thanks for that info." She sighed and took back up the mug that looked like it had been crafted from coffee beans that had been glued together. "But you have a point. Most of our foods were probably discovered to be edible by the most desperate of people. And it _is_ a lot better than that crap I have to drink at work."

"Better than the cafés too."

"Yeah." Deeandra took a sip. "Where'd you get this, anyway? I've never seen it at the stores I usually go to."

"Well, it's typically over one-hundred dollars a pound."

"Oh, so it's _expensive_ shit."

Meghan rolled her eyes and took a sip from her mug, which matched Deeandra's. "Remember that block party Roderick and I held last week?"

"Yeah, sorry again that I couldn't come."

Smiling, Meghan waved her off. "It's fine. Rod and I both know how hectic life can be. Anyway, one of the new neighbors gave it to us. I was pretty reluctant to try it at first, but Rod's always been pretty adventurous and got me to try it. I'm glad he did."

It was hard not to smile with the redhead. She had always been there for Deeandra, especially when Emerson died. At first, she had wondered if she would grow jealous of Meghan, who was happily married and never hid that fact. Those feelings of envy had never surfaced, thankfully. Hating Meghan for being happy with her husband would be like hating a kitten for being adorable. Deeandra figured that she would have only resented her best friend if she _had_ tried to hide her happiness, thereby pitying Deeandra. The only cure for misery was merriment. It was easier to drag others down than let them drag her back up, but she just couldn't fight it. She needed to let them pull her out of the hole she'd been shoved into.

Running her pinky over one side of her mug, Meghan inquired, "How's your newest case going?"

There was a sharp exhale, followed by a long drink of coffee. "This guy's a real sicko, but we don't have any real leads right now. We believe he probably has some medical training with the way the spine gets severed, maybe art classes with how well the wings are carved," she shuddered, "and probably a deeply religious background."

There was also the cicutoxin, which was a poisonous polyyne found in various plants, more notably in cicuta. It was more commonly known as water hemlock, which typically grew in wet meadows, along banks, or in other marshy areas. It had seemed like an odd choice to Deeandra before Damon Diddlebock, one of the lab techs, informed her that it was actually a pretty common poison to use in murder, next to deadly nightshade or arsenic.

_Learn something new every day._ She drank more of the poop coffee. _Even when it's not something you necessarily want to know._ She got up and walked towards the kitchen to refill her mug. "We're trying to create a profile and maybe get a hit, but I don't feel too confident."

"You'll _need_ to feel confident, though." Meghan re-crossed her legs, bouncing one foot as if trying to wake it up. "If you get too frustrated, you'll miss something."

"I know. I just want this guy caught before two more people end up dead."

"Two?"

Taking in a breath, Deeandra opened the cabinets above the stove and took down a bag of organic cane sugar (wasn't all cane sugar organic?). "We're supposed to be going to the press soon anyway," she muttered. "My current case looks identical to a case from three years ago. I think we've got a serial killer in Denver."

Meghan choked on her coffee, eyes wide and shining with fear. "W-what?"

"Serial" and "killer" were two words no one wanted to hear go together outside of shows, movies, and novels. Deeandra didn't want there to be a panic raging over the population, but the people would have to be informed so they could maybe protect themselves. Serial killers tended to have huge egos, however. They often suffered from narcissism, a trait that _should_ make it easier to bring them down. Media attention could help, but it could also make the killer want to strike again sooner than three years from now to add another few logs to the fire and bathe in the chaos it created.

"Husband and wife killed together," Deeandra whispered. "All blond, two couples so far. Both lived in two-story homes and had children." She set down her mug and went to her friend, taking her hands. "I think you'll be alright, and I'll make _sure_ of it."

Trying to make her breathing even, Meghan nodded. "Yeah. I know you will. And Rod and I will make sure to be careful."

Deeandra nodded and looked over at the clock on the wall behind Meghan as it chimed. "I need to get going." She tried for a reassuring smile. "Stay safe."

"You too."

**xxx**

Sitting at the table was Heather Ross, a cup of water in front of her. Her tawny eyes were filled with confusion, anxiety, sorrow, disbelief, fear, disgust, and anger. They were all very natural emotions in such a situation. This was the woman who had discovered the body of Mildred Schwartz, seeing her through the window. Mrs. Ross hadn't said much at the scene, jumpy and full of tears. She'd kept getting off-topic, rattling off in a barely-audible voice as tears and a bit of snot ran her oval-shaped face.

There, in the cold interrogation room, sat the woman, still shaking lightly, water swishing in the plastic cup as she brought it to her thin, chapped lips. Her chin quivered, and her broad shoulders were hunched, body bent forward slightly. Her light brown hair, cut to a couple of inches past her chin, was limp, lusterless, and dark with oil at the roots. She probably hadn't washed her hair at all since yesterday morning. She probably hadn't gotten any sleep, either, and Deeandra felt her heart go out to her. However, she couldn't show it and kept her expression even but with just enough compassion to show she was still human. After a breath, she nodded to Heglin, and they left the small room to join Mrs. Ross, leaving Diddlebock and Johansen in the room to watch them from behind the one-way glass.

When Deeandra and Heglin entered the interrogation room, the woman jumped. Once she saw the two, however, she calmed down, eyes settling back onto the cup.

"Good evening, Mrs. Ross." Deeandra sat in one of the metal chairs across from Heather. "My name is Deeandra Hardt, and this is Emmett Heglin."

"Hello," Heglin greeted with a smile. "Is there anything else we could get you?"

Mrs. Ross shook her head, bangs sweeping over her eyebrows. "No. No, thank you." She sniffed and blinked quickly as if trying to keep back another torrent of tears. "I-I'm sorry I wasn't able to help much yesterday."

"We understand," Deeandra assured, moss green eyes glistening. She remembered what it was like to lose someone close to her—all too well. "You said you were best friends with Mrs. Schwartz?"

The thirty-seven-year-old woman nodded quickly. "She's… she _was_"—her voice cracked—"a couple years younger than me, but we met in high school. Pep rally. She and her friends decided to hang out in the senior section, since we always got to leave the gym first." The corners of her wide mouth tried to move upwards in a wistful smile. "When we were supposed to sing our school's anthem, she changed the words to basically cuss out our school, the football team, and the superintendent."

Deeandra gave a small smile. She'd had a couple of friends like that. "She sounds great."

"She was." Mrs. Ross's mouth twisted back into a frown. "God, I miss her." Her hands left the cup and went to her face. "I can't believe she's gone. She was so sweet and funny and generous. She left food and water out for stray cats, helped jump-start the recycling program and started Tolerance Club at South High… _Why her_?"

Heglin reached forward and took one of Mrs. Ross's hands in a tender manner, dark eyes soft. "I am truly sorry for your loss. This must be very hard, but we're going to need you to tell us everything to help us find this guy."

After a long sip of water, Mrs. Ross nodded. "Yeah, of course." She took a deep breath, calming herself. "Okay, I got up at five o'clock in the morning to go for a run. Millie and I have been running ever since she had Elliot. She wanted to lose the weight she'd gained during pregnancy, so we decided we'd start getting up at five every morning for a run, and we'd go to the gym for a half hour three times a week. So I got dressed and jogged over to Millie's house. I rang the bell, but no one answered. Her alarm doesn't always wake her up, so I rang the bell again and waited, then tried her cell. She didn't answer, which was odd. Usually if she doesn't wake up, either Dallas does, or Zac does and wakes her up. But Zac and Elliot were at Lora's house…"

"Go on, Mrs. Ross," Deeandra said softly, encouragingly.

"I just got this feeling that something was wrong." Her voice squeaked. "I tried shrugging it off and started to look for the spare key under a false rock under the bushes in front of the window. As I… As I went to get… I saw…" She nodded quickly as Heglin squeezed her hand in assurance that they were there for her. "She was just laying there, the living room was a mess, and… that hole in her side. I screamed and fell back. I then got out my phone as fast as I could and called nine-one-one." A stifled sob. "That's when you guys showed up."

"Thank you." Deeandra's mind kept moving, her mind's eye following Mrs. Ross through her story. She was sure this woman couldn't have had anything to do with Mildred's and Dallas's murders, but she had to keep any option open. "I'm very sorry about this, Mrs. Ross, but I also need to ask you a few questions." She opened the folder that she'd set onto the table earlier. She took out pictures of Nickolas and Caroline McGee from their driver licenses. "Do you know either of these two people?"

Elbows on the table and interlocked fingers under her chin, Mrs. Ross's deep-set eyes narrowed as she studied the pictures. It wasn't the swift glance and then shake of the head Deeandra was used to from most in this room. This woman knew that these two had something to do with her friend's murder, and she wanted to do everything she could to her absolute fullest to catch the son of the bitch that had just robbed her of two wonderful people and had left two young boys as orphans. Yes, Deeandra knew Mrs. Ross would do all she could to help, but it might not be enough.

Finally, the woman shook her head. "I'm sorry. I've never seen them before." She pushed the pictures back to Deeandra. "Who are they?"

Deeandra took a breath. This wouldn't be easy. "We believe these two were murdered by the same person that killed Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz."

A hand flew to Mrs. Ross's mouth as her eyes widened. "W-what? T-the s-sa-ame?" Her hand came back down, and it took a while for her breathing to regulate. "Dear God…"

"If there is anything," said Heglin, hands folded on the table in front of him, "you can think of, please give Detective Hardt or myself a call. You've already been given a card, correct?"

"Yeah…" Mrs. Ross shivered in fear.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Ross?" Deeandra inquired. _Of course she isn't_. Still, she felt obligated to ask.

Heather's eyes were on the table, unblinking. "I guess… I… I just can't believe… How many?" She looked up, eyes almost pleading. Here was a woman with a big heart, one that couldn't stand the thought of there being unnecessary suffering in the world. A woman who had just been blasted by the shockwave of the bomb dropped by the guy that thrived on destroying such a belief.

"Four," Deeandra answered.

Heglin amended, "And we're doing all we can to get him from hurting anyone else."

"Good," Mrs. Ross squeaked, the tears flowing freely. "He needs to be caught. He needs to pay for what he's done."

Eyes hardening in determination, Deeandra gave a nod. "I promise he will."

**_The coffee Deeandra had with Meghan in Kopi Luwak coffee. It looks like it may take some time before Deeandra gets on the killer's trail, but she's getting there. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. :3 Please share your thoughts!_**


	6. Forgiveness

**Chapter 6: Forgiveness  
Friday, 25 March 2039 – Gabe**

"_The purpose of life is not to be happy - but to matter, to be productive, to be useful, to have it make some difference that you have lived at all." - Leo Rosten_

Work started at 7:30 Monday through Friday, and Gabe was used to waking up as soon as the sun began to seep its rejuvenating light through the partially-closed blinds. It was hard for him to sleep for more than five to six hours at a time. Any longer than that, and he needed to have Aspirin, Excedrin, or Rocendrin ready. That meant getting up at the crack of dawn, but it wasn't like Gabe necessarily resented it. It felt nice being up when most were still slumbering, a part of them just waiting for that annoying, blaring alarm to either put a stop to a gruesome nightmare or interrupt a glorious dream.

The cemetery was just over a half-hour away from Gabe's apartment by jogging. It used to take him nearly an hour, but he'd been getting faster. A bud always blared either rock, metal, or jazz into his right ear, the left one free to listen to his surroundings. He never fully relaxed, even after just over six years out of prison and nearly three years after saying "So long" to his parole officer. Part of him kept waiting for a crazy man with a knife carved from a toothbrush, which Gabe had once thought prisoners only did on TV. He kept waiting for the asshole that thought he owned the cell block. He kept waiting for the fists, the cell-made weapons, and the hypocrite sneering "Mother killer" at him without knowing anything other than what those clueless reporters claimed.

Slowing down at the iron-bar gate, Gabe turned off his music in respect for the dead and walked up the main path. Further in, he turned off to the left of an angel statue that held up her hands towards Heaven, wings that looked too thin to lift her up into the air spread out on either side. Softly, Gabe began to hum "Near to the Heart of God", a hymn he remembered from church. Amazing he still remembered many of them word for word, note for note. It wasn't like he'd been back to that church since he was thirteen.

He'd gone to the Methodist church Jake and Heather went to, mostly out of obligation. He still went every so often, and he had also gone to the Catholic church Leo and Rosaria went to, though that had only been three times tops. The frankincense incense had made him cough, and he had never prayed to the Holy Mother until his first visit there. It had been odd at first, and though it was alright, it hadn't been for him.

Actually, Gabe didn't feel much up for a building specially designed to force humility onto him and keep telling him that God loves him, but if he doesn't accept that love, he's going to be damned to hell. No, that wasn't what the preacher said exactly, and hell had never been a major focus in any of the sermons, but that was always what Gabe ended up taking away. The only good thing he heard was something few really believed about him: It wasn't too late for him to find salvation.

Still, it didn't matter how many times the Bible said that. People would still judge, and Gabe had never liked sitting in uncomfortable pews, standing and sitting with everyone else like waves following the orders of the wind above and earth below.

This cemetery was more his church than any of those buildings. People would likely find that morbid at best and satanic at worst, but Gabe didn't care about that. He came here, well, religiously. This was where he felt closest to God and to his family. Closer than any church could ever take him.

Near another angel statue—this one wearing a smile and looking as though she were dancing, wings and arms spread out—were the headstones of Teddy Walsh and PJ Duncan. Killed barely a year after Gabe was released from jail, he refused to believe that it was mere coincidence.

Some had believed him to be responsible, but Gabe had an alibi: He'd been meeting with his parole officer at the estimated time of Teddy's murder, and he had been on his way to an evening service with the Ross family the estimated time of PJ's murder. A month later, Spencer Walsh, the man that had been married to Teddy for nearly fifteen years had been tried and convicted for Teddy's murder. There hadn't been enough evidence to support the case that he had also killed PJ, but in the eyes of the public, he was guilty for both deeds.

As much as Gabe hadn't liked the guy upon finding out he broke his sister's heart all those years ago, he didn't believe Spencer was responsible, but he wasn't in any position to speak up against the judicial system.

"You'll find justice one day," Gabe whispered as he took off his backpack and bent down at the foot of his sister's grave. The many flowers already there were beginning to wilt, and the white candle Gabe had set here yesterday had already burned almost to the bottom of the glass. He turned over the shatter-proof glass cup and set in a new votive and turned the wick upright. The scent of sulphur tickled Gabe's nose as he struck a match to light the white candle. "I wish you peace, sis."

Next came PJ's grave. He turned over the cup to retrieve the candle nub, but all the accumulated wax forced Gabe to take out a pen from his backpack and chip away at the wax. Once he was done, he placed in the new candle and lit it. "Hey, man. I'm sure whoever did this will be caught. Take care of Teddy 'till then? And I hope you two were able to find your salvation. I… I don't blame either of you. Well… I don't _want_ to. I want to forgive you both. I guess I'm still working on that." A humorless laugh. "Help me? Help me forgive you?"

Dark eyes stinging, Gabe took a few, shallow breaths as the white-hot tears found their way down his cheeks. Some plopped onto the grass, others following his skin down his neck and underneath his grey T-shirt. His breathing turned jagged, and his shoulders shook as he gripped the cold, damp grass. There was a faint **crunch** from where some of the dew had begun to freeze, tiny patches of white from last night littering the area. It looked more like dandruff than snow, Mother Nature getting rid of the last of her frost before she got Denver ready for warmer temperatures.

Spring was supposed to be about new beginnings. So where were they? Life had to come to death eventually. The passionate flair of autumn giving way to the silent oppression of winter reminded man of that every year. Still, that was a _natural_ cycle. There was nothing natural about murder. Gabe had learnt that all-too well when he stole that Glock from his father's bedside table and hailed a taxi to take him to that bastard's house, gun hidden by being tucked into the back of his pants, long shirt keeping it concealed.

**Monday, 25 March 2013**

Ignorance was bliss, and knowledge was misery. Never before, had this rung any truer in Gabe's ears.

Lying in bed, the thirteen-year-old boy listened as Toby finally began to settle down, his harsh cries now no more than whimpers as Amy hushed and sang, probably doing that side-to-side bouncy dance Gabe had seen her do with Charlie in the past. From downstairs came the **beep** of the microwave, Bob likely stress-eating again. There had been so much stress in this house—since just under a year before Charlie's birth. Then the fighting had subsided for about nine months before continuing at full force. How Bob and Amy had managed to stop yelling at one-another long enough for Toby to be conceived, Gabe had no idea. How they managed to put everything on hold long enough to attend their church on South Clarkson Street every Sunday morning was beyond the middle child.

While Amy had been pregnant with Toby, the fighting had been put on pause. Bob had begun smiling and joking around again, like nothing had ever happened. Then, after Toby's birth, the man had ordered a paternity test.

Since seeing that letter, telling Bob that he was, indeed, Toby's biological father, Gabe could only think and wonder.

Why would Bob insist on a paternity test? What would give him reason to believe that any of Amy's children couldn't be his?

The answer lay within Bob's change in demeanor within the past few years—especially towards Gabe.

Gabriel Duncan was not Bob Duncan's biological son. Upon realizing this, Gabe had nearly slapped himself. He had always felt distant from the rest of the family. He used to joke with his friends that he had probably been adopted or maybe even switched at birth. While everyone else in his family was blond, he was a brunette. Only older pictures of Amy's father showed that he was hers. Gabe looked very similar to how Grandpa Hank had looked at his age. Yet Gabe had nothing of Bob.

At least not Bob _Duncan_.

It had been a few days after a visit to the Diddlebock house for a dinner party the fighting had started. Virginia Diddlebock had noticed that Gabe had her husband's thick, dark brown hair and the same dark, puppy-like eyes that turned down at the corners ever so slightly. She had said nothing of these suspicions that night. It was unfounded. Her husband couldn't have possibly cheated on her with the woman straining a smile at the other end of the table. No way could her husband have had an affair with his best friend's wife.

Gabe was unsure of how the suspicions had come to Bob's attention, but that had been the spark that ignited the wildfire. The wildfire had raged from then forward, and they had never been back to the Diddlebock house. It shouldn't have been hard to connect the dots, but Gabe guessed he just hadn't wanted to see it despite all of his jokes from times before.

He was a child conceived in sin, but that wasn't the end of it. Passion, he could fathom. A one-night stand born from stupidity and short-sightedness could be something Gabe could easily shrug off—once the fighting finally stopped, of course. It had actually begun to get a little better after Toby was born. The yelling wasn't as loud, or as often. Still, Gabe was sure the fighting would have ended long ago if Amy had just come clean to what had _really_ happened.

Amy had _never_ cheated on her husband.

Bob Diddlebock had raped her.

**Friday, 25 March 2039**

Still shaking, Gabe allowed himself to cry before looking back at the graves. "I don't… I don't want to hate either of you. I just want to understand. Help me understand."

No one should have to die. Not even Bob Diddlebock. Gabe had already left a candle at his grave the day after he'd been let out of prison, his parole officer next to him and nodding in encouragement.

"I can't… can't hate… either of you." Gabe kept his head bowed. "I can't find it in myself to. I just want to know what happened."

He got up with his backpack and headed over towards his parents' graves a few rows over. There weren't as many flowers as Teddy and PJ, but there were peach blossoms and peonies on Amy's grave and convolvulus major and orange lilies on Bob's. They looked to have been left there a few days ago. Gabe bent down and replaced the votive candles, lighting them as he murmured a prayer for each person.

"Whatever you two did," he whispered, "I hope PJ and Teddy learned to forgive you, and I hope you forgave them for what they did." He folded in hands in prayer. "Dear merciful Father in Heaven, please take care of my mom and dad and of Teddy and PJ. Please take care of Charlie and Toby. Please be there for Jo, who still suffers from who has wronged her and the aftermath of it. Please help me find forgiveness during my time here. Thank You for all You have done so far, Lord. Amen."

After a breath, Gabe zipped back up his backpack and stood. The sun stretched upwards, greeting the day, and it would be time for work in a little over an hour. After another long look at the headstones, Gabe sighed and began jogging back to his apartment.

**_Rocendrin is pain medication used specifically for headaches, created in the 2020's. Well, something shocking in Gabe's past has been revealed, and more about what happened will soon come to light as well. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and please tell me what you think. :)_**


	7. Puzzle Pieces

**Chapter 7: Puzzle Pieces  
Saturday, 1 July 2033 – Jo**

"_The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridge to cross and which to burn." - David Russell_

Jo took a long, good look at the man accused of his wife's murder. His eyes were like wet slate and were circled with purpled skin suggesting nights of little to no sleep. His hair, which was the shade of burnt wood, was longer and shaggy, covering the tips of his ears and brushing along the tops of his eyebrows. There was stubble over his jaw and cheeks, demanding a shave. The corners of his mouth were dipped into a frown, and he resembled more of a beaten-down dog than a man. It was a rough sight to behold, and Jo briefly wondered if Gabe had ever looked like this.

_No_, she immediately told herself. _Gabe's not as much of a pussy as this guy_.

Spencer picked up the phone, back hunched as he leaned against the small table leading up to the ballistic glass separating him and the younger woman. He waited for her to pick up her own phone. "Jo? When I was told you were visiting me, I thought it was a joke. You here to cuss me out too?"

"Ivy or Emmett?"

"What do you mean 'or'?" He sounded much more snarky than he ever had before. Getting thrown into prison and having everyone hate him probably had something to do with it.

Blinking, Jo wore an expression that told the man she didn't care just how aggravated or exhausted he was. If she had decided to take time away to come see him, he better damn well show some respect.

Seeming to understand that look, Spencer sat up a little straighter, brow no longer furrowed.

"Let's get something straight right now," Jo declared once she was satisfied. "I don't like you. Never have. I may not have hung out with Teddy, but upon seeing that pitiful, heartbroken look on her face after she discovered your dirty little secret—"

"That was _years_ ago," Spencer practically growled, face contorting in pain. It looked like he had never fully forgiven himself for cheating on Teddy, which made Jo feel a little better about him.

"Yeah, well, I'm good at holding grudges."

"Good to know." Spencer opened his eyes again. When he blinked, it was slow and long, like he could fall asleep right there.

Jo continued: "But I believed you when you said you were innocent." She watched as Spencer sat up even straighter, mouth falling open slightly and eyes sparkling in surprise and hope. "I just have absolutely no idea who could have framed you."

"It wouldn't have been hard," Spencer murmured, head lowering slightly. "People tend to look at the husband, anyway. The fact that Teddy had wanted a divorce just added to it."

"Why did she want one?"

"She…" Spencer looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. "She was about to go back to her lawyer the next day," he whispered, eyes glassing over in sorrow as he remembered that horrible night. "Teddy had been holding a big secret for years and said she thought I'd be better off with a woman that didn't have such a dark past."

There was a spark in Jo's mind at that. Spencer would likely refuse to disclose said secret, but Jo was very sure about what it was. Another piece of the puzzle was in place. It fit, but it was still too dark to see if the pattern matched.

"Anyone you can think of that could have done it?" Jo inquired softly.

Spencer shook his head. "No, but the police said there was a lot of hate behind it."

The woman nodded, playing with the braid she had put her ash brown hair into. "Yeah, the funeral was closed-casket." She bit her bottom lip as Spencer flinched. "Same as PJ, even though he wasn't near as bad. It'd been a shared funeral, though."

The ghost of a smile finally appeared on Spencer's face, the lines making it look as if he hadn't smiled in a long time. "They would have liked that."

"Yeah…." Jo took a breath, her next words barely above a whisper. "I overheard Toby say he thinks Gabe did it."

Spencer shook his head instantly. "No, I don't think it was Gabe. He couldn't be so angry with them to do such a thing. I can't imagine it."

"I agree." Jo gave a nod. "He wouldn't have had the heart, just like you wouldn't have had the guts."

"Thanks," said Spencer flatly. "So what are you planning on doing?"

Jo shook her head, no longer looking at him. "I don't know what I _can_ do. I haven't even _spoken_ to Gabe yet, and I broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago." Her hand went to the lower part of her stomach. Spencer seemed to notice but said nothing, knowing that she wouldn't want him mentioning anything about it—smart man.

"So why come here?"

Hesitating, Jo blinked quickly to drive away her tears. "No idea, to tell you the truth. Guess I just needed someone, _anyone_, to talk to."

It was an hour before Jo left the prison and headed back to Denver. The first place she decided to go to was Prophecy Café for a coffee and a reading. Maybe something to eat as well. It was nearing sundown, but she didn't want much except for something with fat and sugar to help settle her frayed nerves.

As soon as she walked up to the counter, the college girl working today smiled, hazel-green eyes glittering behind wire-framed glasses. "Grande caramel macchiato?"

"And a…," Jo looked at the glass case to her left, "raspberry cheesecake scone please."

"Heated?"

"Yes, please."

"Coming right up!"

Jo took the wallet out of her leather purse and handed over the correct amount of money and then dropped in a dollar into the tip jar, making the girl's smile widen.

As the girl got out a square plate, Jo went to a tall, round table not far from the double French doors that led to the divination room. Along half of the wall in front of Jo were shelves holding decks of Tarot cards, bags of rune stones, small boxes with a pendulum in each one, and books that told people how to use these items for foretelling. The café was famous for the readings done in the back room, and there were also workshops held in many of the franchises to teach people how to give readings. Jo wasn't a big believer in psychics, but she knew about intuition and people-reading, which was pretty much what was used. She'd had a couple readings at another Prophecy Café in Denver, once with rune stones and another in which the person "read" her tea leaves. It had been interesting, and she liked their coffee.

"Here you go." The dark-haired college girl brought over the scone with a small, silver fork, and a large, ceramic mug that held Jo's caramel macchiato.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome!"

_Is she naturally perky or just lives off of tips?_ Jo asked herself as she began to eat her scone.

From her purse, she took out a book, which had the jacket of _Angeldust_ by Oliver Winchester hiding its cover. She didn't want anyone knowing what she actually was reading and what she had been contemplating for weeks. She didn't even want to think about it, but she had to. She had to think about it, make a decision. There was also a time limit for this decision. Once it passed, she had fewer options. And _none_ of these options seemed right. There seemed to be no right answers no matter which way Jo decided to go.

_Dear God, why?_

After finishing her scone and coffee, Jo had read another five chapters, only one left to go. She shut her book and looked over at the double doors, the glass frosted to keep anyone to spy on those that were inside the room. A small sign hanging from one of the door handles showed that no one was currently getting a reading, and Jo stuffed her book into her purse as she walked over to the room, turning over the sign as she entered.

The room wasn't too small, and it didn't have such dim lighting like the other divination room Jo had been to. The way the room was painted made it seem perpetually stuck on the edge of day and night, the sun and moon staring each other down. There were long tables covered in royal purple cloth on each of the walls, the back one holding a coffee pot, a hot plate, tins of various tea leaves, and four stacks of cups. To the right were numerous decks of cards, and to the left were a few bags of various rune stones and several chalices. There was also an oil burner next to one of the chalices, the tea light candle's flame flickering calmly.

In the center was a round table covered in the same purple cloth. Jo sat down in the chair closest to her, meeting the wide-set eyes of the young woman wearing a parchment-colored top with a teardrop neckline and bishop-style sleeves. Her dimpled smile was kind, delicate hands folded on the table's surface. The overhead light was on, but it wasn't too bright, allowing the two taper candles on either side of the circular table to cast a certain mood. They were in silver holders, white and purple spiraling into the flame.

"Do you have a preference to how you wish your fortune to be read?" The woman's voice was soft and held a shifting tone like she may start singing at any time.

"Tarot, please." Jo tried to settle into the chair, purse in her lap. The air held a mélange of scents, Jo only able to pick up frankincense, nutmeg, and rose.

The woman got up, her glossy, dark brown locks brushing along her shoulders and over her upper back. Her blouse hugged her body a couple of inches above her pierced navel, and her jeans were low-riding. "Alright. Any specific denomination? Or maybe something themed animals or even pirates?" Her laugh was actually chime-like (Jo had never thought a description like that could ever be accurate, but, in this case, it was).

"Anything is fine. I just know I want a pyramid spread."

"Alright." She picked up a deck near the middle and brought it over to the table. The backs of the cards had red crosses and suns decorating them. She handed the deck over to Jo. "Concentrate on a question as you shuffle."

"For how long?" asked Jo as she took the deck.

"As long as you feel is right." Her eyes were soft, expression placid.

After a nod, Jo closed her eyes and focused her mind as she did an overhand shuffle for probably about a minute before opening her eyes and handing the deck back to the woman. She looked a little familiar, but Jo dismissed the thought. She could have seen her anywhere. She just kept her mind on her question: _Am I making the right decision?_

Ten cards were laid down before the rest of the deck was set to the side. The psychic pointed to the top card, eyes moving up to meet Jo's. "The Tower. Your very foundation has been rocked, which is what drives you to ask this question. It feels almost as if your entire belief system has shattered. Don't let yourself overreact. Keep a cool head to get back control." Her hand moved down to the next two cards. "Two of Swords and Five of Cups. It looks like whichever choice you make, there will be some form of mourning. You'll need to listen to your intuition to choose, and take time to mourn when the time comes. Turn to someone for help and healing, but don't prolong your grief." Her hand moved down to the next three. "Wheel of Fortune, Six of Swords, and Justice. Life has its ups and downs. You can't always have control over it, but you shouldn't let events rattle you too much. However, you did, and you tried to run away."

Jo flinched. So far, this woman was very right, and it made Jo somewhat uncomfortable. The girl's tone seemed overly calm, probably trying to ease Jo's nerves, but it wasn't working.

"You need to face your problems. You can make our own future by your own actions. Even though you may keep asking why this happened to you, learn from it. Even though life gets out of your control sometimes, you have the power to reel it back in." Her hand moved to the final row. "Ten of Swords, Death, Two of Cups, and Three of Cups. When you reach the end of your hardship, keep going. You'll think it's hard and that you may not be able to move on, but you _can_. When things come to an end, it brings a lot of pain, but endings create new beginnings. Don't let yourself be afraid of change. Embrace it. You'll find an opportunity to be paired up with someone, whether romantic or something else. Enjoy your moments with this person. Also, remember that there are those nearby that love you." Her eyes came up to meet Jo's. "Never forget that. Just be with them and celebrate the joys of being alive."

Nodding, Jo wiped away a tear that had managed to escape, thanking the woman and handing her the money for the reading. As she walked away, her hand went to her stomach. _But how can I enjoy living when I'm thinking about taking a life _away_?_

**_Remember what Jo told Gabe at the end of chapter 1? Well, a few more pieces are falling into place, and many more are to come. I hope y'all are enjoying the story, and please tell me what you think. :):):)_**


	8. Torturous Memories

**Chapter 8: ****Torturous **Memories  
Sunday, 27 March 2039 – Ivy

"_The past is never dead, it is not even past." - William Faulkner_

The bloody bat was still there.

Sitting atop a box filled with old toys that needed to be donated to charity, Ivy stared at the patched-up duffel bag not even her husband had opened. Always, it was kept hidden, but Ivy brought it out every year around this time, just to remind herself it was still there, judging her. Just as God would judge her for her crimes when the time finally came. She repeatedly begged for forgiveness, but she doubted He still bothered to listen to such shallow pleas. Ivy didn't blame Him. She could never blame the good Father. This happened because of her own choices. She could lie and say that it had been the circumstances. She could say that she _hadn't _had a choice, that she'd been forced. She could say many, _many_ things, but all sins were the same. A lie was a sin. Murder was a sin.

Never before had Ivy been able to wrap her mind around the fact that all sins were the same in God's eyes. How to him, a lie was no different from adultery, rape, _murder_. Why could there not be separation between them? In Dante's _Inferno_, hadn't there been different levels for different sins?

"But it's all the same…." Ivy saw that now. Maybe not completely, but she understood that there was no excuse for anything. Some days she just wanted to scream and say that it wasn't fair, but who was she to make that claim?

It was hard to say what was fair anymore, what was justifiable. Would she have done it the same way all over again? Or would she have changed something? Maybe have gone to the police with this stupid bat that she'd been keeping hidden in the same way she would a treasure?

No, she probably would have taken the _exact_ _same_ path. Fear, pumping adrenaline, and horror would have forced her to. There had been no room for logic, no place for foresight. There had only been that night and what needed to happen right then.

"I hate you," Ivy told the bat in a low whisper that took the tone of a growl.

It was easier to believe that it had been the bat's fault. That it had wielded the person and not the other way around.

Prickling heat spread through Ivy's reddened eyes as another deluge of tears was let loose. "_Why_?"

Oh, she _knew_ why. She knew _exactly_ why. It had seemed justified—at least that was what she had kept telling herself as she turned back to gaze at the one body she could still see, the bat wrapped in towels and gripped in her left hand. Ivy's eyes had been wide, tears gathering at the corners, and lips parted like she was ready for a scream that refused to come. She had only looked back for a fraction of a second, seeing Mr. Duncan's bulging, grey-green-blue eyes staring back at her, face contorted in pain and mouth opened wide as if he had been ready to damn all three of them to the fires of Hell—right where his own soul was heading, in Ivy's opinion.

One arm had been out to the side, the elbow bent at an angle that was unnatural, bone bursting through the battered flesh. The blood had still spread, even though he had already stopped bleeding minutes before. Blood had been everywhere. Ivy had never seen so much before then, and when she had finally realized what had happened—the realization, thankfully, hadn't hit until they'd reached her house—she had retched into the bushes, Teddy trying to hold her hair back until Ivy pushed her away.

"_No!" Ivy screamed right before vomiting again. "D-don't… come near…." She retched again, but only bile was left._

_Teddy's brown eyes that had always been so full of warmth and love were wide in terror and hurt as she stared at her best friend, PJ holding her by the shoulders. "You're a part of this now _just_ as much as we are!"_

"_Keep your voices down!" PJ hissed. He'd already taken off his blood-soaked sweater (now a ball in a plastic bag hanging from the crook of his left arm), but the red liquid still marked his hair and face—he'd cleaned off his hands with the wipes in Ivy's car. Good thing they were in the back yard, hidden from the neighbors by the tall fence. "Let's get inside, now. Ivy, you sure your parents aren't home?"_

_Coughing, Ivy nodded quickly and then wiped her mouth with her sleeve, ending up getting a bit of blood on her face. "Yeah. Come on, I'll start a fire. We'll get rid of y'all's clothes, and I'll get rid of this." She hefted her old leopard-print duffel bag she'd stashed the bat into._

It had been such a nightmarish night, and all three of them had just been waiting for their alarm clocks to blare and force them back into reality. The reality where Teddy and PJ weren't murderers and Ivy hadn't been their getaway driver.

Only, it'd just gotten worse when the police had tried to pin both murders on Gabe, who had been out killing Bob Diddlebock. It had definitely been a bloody night, and Ivy had wanted to apologize to Gabe for years. At first, it was because she hadn't wanted to say anything incriminating where the police could overhear. Afterwards, it had just been easier to keep quiet about everything. She wasn't even sure were to find him now or if she even really wanted to. What was she supposed to say? Gabe had never ratted out his older siblings even though he'd known they had been the actual killers. The police hadn't been able to stick the murders of Amy and Bob Duncan to Gabe anyway—not enough evidence. Many still believed he'd done it, but in the court of law, Gabriel Duncan had only been found guilty for Bob Diddlebock's murder.

That should have helped Ivy rest more easily at night, but she knew it wasn't as simple as that.

"_We can't go to the police now!" Teddy threw her hands into the air. "It's too late." Her eyes blazed, full of just as much terror as they had been years ago during _that_ night._

"_You're little brother's in jail!" Ivy argued, getting to her feet._

"_He wasn't found guilty for _their_ murders!" Tears formed at the corners of Teddy's tawny eyes. They blazed as they met Ivy's. "Why should that bastard get justice anyway? He _deserved_ what he got."_

"_Do you _really_ believe that?" Ivy felt like she didn't even know what had happened to Teddy—_her_ Teddy. "And, what, you'd come forward if Gabe _had_ been found guilty and was on his way to death row?"_

_Turning her head, Teddy was silent, breathing deeply. "But he wasn't." Her voice was small, almost unsure. It was like she, too, had no idea what had happened to Teddy Rachel Duncan._

_She was gone. She had been for nearly a year now._

Swallowing, Ivy zipped up the bag and put it back into its hiding place under some suitcases behind the Christmas decorations. She hadn't gotten rid of it like PJ had said. The very thought had horrified her, so she had merely stashed it under her bed, behind her slippers and text books. She had then grabbed Teddy some clothes she'd left at Ivy's (they were always leaving stuff at each other's houses), and had grabbed a shirt and slacks from her dad's closet for PJ. Once showered and changed, they'd burned the clothes they'd worn during the act, and Teddy had helped Ivy clean the bathroom with bleach just to make sure no blood could be found. Emmett had been called, and he had agreed to have an alibi ready for PJ just in case. Ivy and Teddy had already come up with theirs.

Being questioned about the murders had been almost petrifying for Ivy, but none of the investigators had seemed to notice anything off.

Wiping her eyes, Ivy climbed down the ladder that had given her numerous splinters before she had finally gotten Raymond to sand it. She was soon standing in the hallway, folding up the ladder and closing the opening into the attic.

Going into the kitchen, Ivy saw that it was nearly five o'clock in the evening. Raymond had taken Josef to choir, and Rachel was at Ravin's house and was spending the night. That left Ivy with time alone to think or self-reflect, but she didn't want to do either. As she reached into the cabinet over the microwave (hung over the stove), the purple billowing sleeve slipped down her right arm, showing splotches of flesh that were slightly raised and a few shades lighter than the rest of her skin. Ivy didn't like blades. She had decided to use a hot poker instead, getting her flesh ready for eternity.

Ivy put water into the kettle, using her mug to measure how much she would need and then added a couple splashes more. It only took a few minutes before she had her cup of chamomile tea, and she took it with her to the den to relax. She turned on the TV to a movie channel, where a drama was on. Ivy barely paid attention and began to, instead, leaf through the nearest book. Raymond must have looked through it recently, seeing as Ivy didn't remember seeing it out before. It was about genetics.

Ivy skimmed over the words. She had needed to take a biology class in both high school and college and had learned some about genetics, but, not surprisingly, this book went into way more detail. There was even a section about incest and how genetics could work there. Of course, Ivy's eyes stopped at that section, like when she drove by an accident—she _had_ to see. She learned that between two people with no blood relation still had a three- to five-percent chance of having a child born with a defect. With two cousins, that chance raised to only six- to seven-percent, and with—

Slamming the book shut, Ivy shook her head as she took a deep breath and took up her mug of tea. She wasn't going to think about that now. Thinking about that would make her think about what she had been thinking about in the attic, and she was done for now. She was done torturing herself for a moment. All she wanted was to sip her tea and watch a movie that would allow her to put her brain on pause.

When the tea was gone, the movie was almost over, and the mother was begging her daughter for forgiveness. Mouth a hard line, Ivy began to flip through the channels, stopping abruptly at the news as soon as she spotted the white, block letters at the bottom of the screen: SERIAL KILLER LOOSE IN DENVER.

Leaning forward, Ivy had her elbows on her legs and her right hand covering her left fist as it hid her quivering mouth. There was a _serial killer_ that the district attorney had decided to dub The Fallen Angel.

"Dear God…" Ivy slowly shook her head, trembling slightly.

Behind a pedestal with many microphones pointed at him, a man that looked to be in his mid-fifties waved his hands downward as if trying to get everyone to calm down. His small eyes were hard and sharp, voice still clear and no-business-sounding. He informed the crowd and viewers that the police were doing all they could to track this monster down and put him behind bars. He cautioned them all to be safe, and to one side of the screen came pictures of the four victims—they looked like ID photos from one woman's forced smile, the other woman's let's-get-this-over-with grimace, a man's bored look, and the other man looking like he was exhausted or even possibly hung-over.

It had been two married couples, man and wife dying together. The bodies had been positioned in ways that made Ivy gasp and murmur the Lord's Prayer under her breath.

This time of the year had always been hard on her, and now there was a serial killer on the loose? Any other time, Ivy might have said that it sounded like one hell of a coincidence. Only, she had never believed in coincidences.

**_You all got a lot more information in this chapter. :) I hope you guys enjoyed it and will continue to enjoy reading. Please feel free to share your thoughts with me. :3_**


	9. Alouette

**Chapter 9: Alouette  
Monday, 28 March 2039 – Toby**

"_Here is the test to find whether your mission on earth is finished. If you're alive, it isn't." - Richard Bach_

All of the stores had been ready for Easter since before the Vernal Equinox. It wouldn't be until April tenth this year, but people were already buying chocolate rabbits, deciding on which candies to put into plastic eggs, and how to decorate real ones. The Easter lilies were standing prominently in almost every store Toby went to. He just could not avoid them. Next to Christmas, this was supposed to be one of the happiest holidays of the year, and next to Halloween, it was the biggest candy-filled one. Soon, Toby would be hearing from his pastor how Easter was actually more important than Christmas, as it marked when Jesus rose from the grave. It was a day of rebirth.

But Toby only saw a day of death.

The official dates of Teddy's and PJ's deaths were on the seventeenth, but that had been Easter day that year. Toby's parents had died March twenty-eighth in 2013. So he felt very justified in not sharing the joy of the season, especially today.

He always looked away from all of the chocolates, the colored eggs, and the trumpet-shaped blooms, blue eyes trained on his path ahead. He was on his way to The Lounge, a diner he had started going to some years ago. It had good food, and the poster in the back did not exaggerate on how great the lemonade was. The only sore spot was the busboy/janitor, but Toby wasn't about to let his presence keep him away from his favorite place to grab lunch.

"Here you go, Mr. Duncan!" The waitress smiled as she set the plate holding a turkey burger, coleslaw, and sweet potato fries onto the table. "Enjoy." Her dark eyes lit up, and her teeth challenged pearls in brightness.

It was hard to not smile back. "Thank you very much, Rosaria."

"You're welcome!"

She left and yelled at the cook in Spanish, and Toby popped a sweet potato fry into his mouth. His girlfriend often teased that it always seemed to be doctors that ate the greasiest, fattiest, or sugariest foods. Some of the muscle he had built up in high school and college was already beginning to share space with the most common side-effect of Toby's diet. Anya was making him run with her in the mornings and evenings now, and he figured that plus the salads she forced onto him every night for dinner helped balance out what he'd eat at The Lounge.

Not even a minute after four girls left, giggling and gossiping, a dark-haired man was wiping down the table they'd been at. He wore a white apron that tied around his trim waist, and his shirt was the shade of a summer leaf hiding in the shadows cast by the canopy. He had muscles that hadn't come from football, basketball, or baseball, and the end of a scar peeked from beneath his left sleeve, which ended between his shoulder and elbow. His round face looked almost childlike, making it hard on first impression to realize that he had done hard time. Only the scar on his slightly olive-toned face showed off by his slicked-back hair helped give off a tough image.

In those video diaries (Toby had watched them almost as many times as Charlie), Teddy had referred to Gabe as a "little demon" more than once. Ironic, then, his first name should be after an archangel and his second after a saint: Gabriel Basil Duncan. With that face, soft brown eyes with the corners tipped downwards ever so slightly, and thick, dark brown hair, Toby saw how he could appear like someone virtuous, humbly working day after day.

But even the devil had been thought to be the most beautiful angel in Heaven once upon a time.

_Ignore him_. Toby went back to his lunch. He couldn't let Gabe's presence bother him. He would just eat his lunch, pay, and head back to St. Paul Medical.

When Gabe had first started working at The Lounge, Toby had frozen in mid-bite, spotting the demon coming out of the men's restroom with a mop and bucket as well as a rag over one shoulder and a spray bottle of pale blue liquid hanging from the bucket's side. He'd had his hair a little longer and parted to the side, some of it falling over his forehead and brushing his thick lashes. He'd stopped, eyes widening as they'd fallen upon Toby's face. With his long hair and thin face, Toby resembled PJ somewhat, so he had probably been who Gabe thought he was seeing at first.

Before Gabe could have talked to him, Toby had left, forgetting to pay. Now, Gabe mostly ignored him, hurt crossing his eyes whenever they fell upon his little brother.

Yet, _he_ did not get the _right_ to be hurt. _He_ ruined _Toby's_ life. Toby's, Teddy's, PJ's, and Charlie's. It had taken only one night for Gabriel Duncan to turn their lives upside down and tear them all apart.

Again, Toby attempted to banish these thoughts from his head and eat.

**xxx**

Once work was done, Toby was no longer in scrubs and now wore jeans, a blue button-up shirt, and a light, black jacket. He got pink roses and lilies of the valley. Every year on this day, he visited his parents' graves. Every Easter, he visited his brother's and sister's. Near Bob's and Amy's graves was a statue of an angel that looked like she was dancing, but Toby didn't look at it as he set the roses on his mother's grave and the lilies on his father's. He couldn't remember either of them. All he had were pictures and copies of those video diaries—Charlie had made the copies per his request when he was in middle school.

The cool wind blew his honey-colored hair about his face. He had took his wispy locks out of the low ponytail he kept it in during work, the tips falling to just below his broad shoulders. Closer to his face, the locks were shorter, cut to just below his jaw. Anya liked to joke that he could look a little like Thor if he'd just exercise more and try growing out his facial hair a bit.

The grass crunched over from the right. "Hey, Toby."

He didn't have to turn to look at her. "Hi, Charlie. Good day today?"

"Could have been better."

She set down a small bouquet of red flowers with brown centers, those flowers surrounded by ones that only had four, white petals each on Amy's grave. On Bob's, she placed a bundle of white-and-pink flowers that looked like bells and a few stems with many white blooms with yellow-tipped filaments in the in the center. Charlie had never been a simple roses-and-lilies type of person. Her house had flowers everywhere both outside and inside it. She always spent hours nearly every day taking care of them. It was from her gardens she got the flowers she brought to the graves, saying it meant much more that way than simply getting refrigerated (and often genetically altered to live on less water) ones from a florist.

"What are those?" Toby didn't really have any plants except for an orchid Anya had brought in a few months ago.

Wide-set eyes on the head stones, Charlie's bow-shaped lips barely moved as she spoke. "I gave Mom cardamine and pheasant's eye, which is also called 'Adonis'."

A corner of Toby's mouth quirked upwards slightly before it was pulled back down in the next instant. "She always did seem like she wanted to always be in the center of everyone's attention in those videos."

"The spotlight loved her," Charlie said, tone light as if trying to make it a joke. It had fallen a little flat, though. "And I gave Dad dogbane and rue."

"They look pretty."

She nodded, sand-blonde strands that had escaped her high ponytail tickling her face, her ringlets nearly reaching her small waist. She had a small chin, square jaw-line, and a large forehead, making her resemble their deceased sister. It was a resemblance Charlie had repeatedly announced her aversion to in the past. There have been days where she would look in the mirror and scream, thinking she'd seen a ghost. Mason had tried talking to her about it, and he had even signed her up to see a therapist.

It'd been like foster care all over again. She had just clammed up; Mason hadn't been able to handle it—he and Charlotte had gotten a divorce about two years ago, but Mason had left her the house and a good amount of money.

_He should have stayed with her_, thought Toby, _but at least he didn't leave her with nothing. At least he had good intentions and hadn't destroyed her._

Like—

Toby blinked hard. No, this was about his parents, not their murderer. _He_ had no place here.

"You have a good day?" Charlie finally looked up at him. "Saving lives?" Her mouth curved into a small smile.

"Not too busy, but I did a few surgeries." His hands went into his pockets. "It's kinda hard to have a really good day this time of the year, though."

After blinking, Charlie trained her eyes back onto the graves. "All we can do is keep moving." She paused, taking a few deep breaths. "They say time heals all wounds."

"Time doesn't do anything but move forward," said Toby, tucking some hair behind his left ear. "It's indifferent. _We_ have to _decide_ to heal." He looked over at her. "But you do have a point. I'm tired of feeling this way, but…" He shook his head, eyes going back to the head stones.

"Why can't you forgive him?" Her voice was almost a plea, eyes shimmering.

"I don't want to talk about this now."

Charlie sighed. "You never do." She looked to be reading Amy's inscription. "Do you know what I remember most about Mom?" Before Toby could answer, she said, "Not her hugs, not her kisses, not even how she looked other than what I've seen of her in those videos. What I remember is this song she would always sing to me:

"_Alouette, gentille alouette,  
Alouette, je te plumerai;  
Je te plumerai la tête,  
Je te plumerai la tête;  
Et la tête,  
Et la tête;  
Allouette,  
Allouette;  
O-o-o-oh…_"

Just like her sister, Charlie had a beautiful voice that the wind carried as if excited to share it with the world. Her eyes closed as she sang, head tilted up slightly and hands folded in front of her as she stood up straight with her shoulders back. Even though it was only just over forty-five degrees, she wore a pale blue shirt with sleeves that ended just above her elbows and a long, black, layered skirt. She always wanted to look nice, especially when coming to visit the graves.

"She sang that a lot?" inquired Toby.

"Often, I think. I don't remember for sure. I'd think so if that's what I remember most, though."

Toby nodded. He knew that Charlie had been the one to find Gabe in the living room with their parents' bodies, but she'd only been three. She had nightmares of blood and unseeing eyes staring at her, but she couldn't remember much of anything from that day. She had told Toby that she remembered hearing loud sirens, that she remembered having someone holding her and taking her in a dark car. That was it, but she sometimes heard herself screaming in her nightmares. She sometimes heard a baby—Toby, obviously—crying. All of the other details came from stories from newspapers, social workers, and the police. Neither PJ nor Teddy had ever really wanted to speak of that night. Toby understood. He hadn't really wanted to think about it, but he had always been unable to rein in his wandering mind.

"I should probably go." Charlie offered another smile and wrapped her arms around Toby in a tight hug. "Love you."

Smiling as well, Toby hugged her back. "You too. I'm going to meet Anya in a bit. See you later, Charlie."

**_Toby still harbours a lot of hate for Gabe... Not as many clues to what had happened in this chapter (sorry), since Toby had been a baby when his parents died and since he thinks Gabe was behind all four murders. At least he cares for Charlie. :) The next chapter is with Deeandra, and I hope you enjoyed this one. Please feel free to share your thoughts with me. :)_**


	10. Finding Connections

**Chapter 10: Finding Connections  
Monday, 28 March 2039 – Deeandra**

"_The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth." - Chinese Proverb_

Nickolas McGee: Cradle Catholic but had begun going to a nondenominational church on Pearl Street since he got out of college.

Caroline McGee: Had a Baptist mother and Atheist father. Was an Agnostic-Atheist but often went to church with her husband and children.

Dallas Schwartz: Born to a Presbyterian father and Pagan mother and became Buddhist in high school. Sometimes went to a temple on Lawrence Street.

Mildred Schwartz: Born to a nondenominational Christian mother and father. Became Wiccan in college.

When it came to Mildred, it was pretty easy to find out what had gone on in her life, thanks to her Books of Shadow. Heglin currently had some of his guys looking over them to see if they could find anything that could help lead them to the killer. The one that the D.A. had decided to dub "The Fallen Angel" when he was interviewed yesterday. The man probably thought it sounded clever and creative. Deeandra just thought it sounded stupid.

"_I kind of like it."_

Of course he would.

_"And what would _you_ call him?"_

She'd call him "Sick Son of a Bitch Whose Ass Needs to be on Death Row".

"_Much too long. The name needs to be short and memorable, like 'Jack the Ripper' or 'The Giggling Granny'."_

Deeandra was about to roll her eyes when she remembered that she was technically arguing with herself (luckily, not aloud; the others thought she was crazy enough without her talking to herself).

"_You're not crazy, Dee-Dee. Others just put too much stock in sanity."_

In other words: She was, but that was what he had loved about her.

"_And someone else will too."_

Trying not to groan, Deeandra looked over the papers, one elbow propped up on her messy desk. She didn't need her dead husband, who was no longer no more than a figment of her imagination, telling her she was ready to start dating again (yes, she knew perfectly well how insane that sounded). She didn't need the stress of a relationship with her job, especially seeing as she worked nights. On top of that, the public had just been informed that there was a serial killer loose in Denver, and having microphones shoved into Deeandra's face was always the worst part of the job. Heglin hated it just as much, the two of them always waving the reporters by with "No comment" or "I can't disclose anything at this time."

The Under-Sherriff was better at handling the press, but Deeandra was sure that it was only because he wanted to be the District Attorney one day.

_Damn politics_, Deeandra grumbled in her mind. _Meanwhile, I can't find a damn thing that connects these two couples._

When it came to religion, each person pretty much represented a different letter of those **Coexist** posters, bracelets, bumper stickers, and billboards that Deeandra used to see everywhere she went—she actually still had the bumper sticker on her Constellation.

The families hadn't lived close by to one-another and hadn't seemed to shop at the same places, except for Park Meadows Mall and Colorado Mills. Those places were still being looked into, but there wasn't much to go on. It was hard to connect the dots when they had to scour, not just the page, but the entire tome, for that next speck.

The McGee children were of the ages twelve, ten, and seven, the younger two going to Roosevelt Elementary while the eldest went to North Junior High School. The Schwartz children were seven and four. Both went to Lincoln Elementary (Elliot was gifted, apparently, and had been able to start kindergarten a year early).

The McGees had gone out to eat every other Friday, allowing their children to take turns choosing the restaurant. The Schwartzes, on the other hand, had usually eaten at home.

How on earth did The Fallen Angel pick out his victims? Did he just drive around Denver on scouting trips? Deeandra had first thought of maybe therapy, but neither couple had ever had many problems, at least not anything that would make them go to couples' counseling. With their different religions, Heglin had thought there was little chance of them having gotten married at the same place. Still, Deeandra had checked into it. The Schwartzes had gotten married in Pearl Lake State Park, done by a state-sanctioned High Priest and High Priestess. Deeandra had spoken to them already. Both had remembered Dallas and Mildred, though they hadn't kept in close touch with either one.

Taking up her notepad, Deeandra left. She needed to get over to the church on Pearl Street and talk to the preacher there. She honestly didn't know what she would find, but she needed to look everywhere. She couldn't see that stupid dot anywhere, but she was not about to give up.

Pastor Fenris was in his office, typing away at his computer, getting his next sermon ready as well as other work. He also counseled couples wishing to get married and spoke at funerals. He had spoken at Mr. and Mrs. McGee's, and he recognized Deeandra as she entered his office. He slid his keyboard over to the side and touched the translucent screen, closing some of the windows and saving his work.

"Good morning, Detective Hardt." He smiled, grey eyes sparkling. He stood and took the detective's hand, giving it a firm shake.

"'Morning, Mr. Fenris." Deeandra sat down in the chair in front of the large desk. She crossed ankles, knees pointed towards the side. "I need to look back into the murders of Nickolas and Caroline McGee."

The minister took a breath and refolded his hands on his desk. "Yes, I'd like to help in any way I can. Everyone here was so shocked and devastated by their deaths."

Deeandra nodded in understanding. "I'm sorry to have to open up this wound—"

Pastor Fenris waved her off, a wrinkle between his thick, dark brows. "If there is anything I can do to help, I will. Nick and Carol were wonderful people and deserve justice, and their families deserve closure and peace of mind."

"I agree." She pulled out the ID photos of Dallas and Mildred Schwartz she kept in the pocket of her green coat. She then placed the pictures onto the desk to where the minister could see them. "Do you recognize either of these two?"

Studying them, lines creased around the man's eyes and mouth. Finally, he pointed at Mildred's picture. "She looks very familiar." Another second of thought. "Erika, right?"

"Erika was her mother's name."

"Ah, yes. Erika's hair was a little darker I believe."

Deeandra nodded. She had met Erika Anders briefly. She and Mildred shared a similar facial structure and those large, sky-blue eyes. "This is Mildred Schwartz, maiden name Anders and often called 'Millie'. Mildred was married to Dallas Schwartz. Where do you remember Mrs. Anders from?"

"She came here for a few years with her husband before moving," Pastor Fenris answered.

"Do you know how long ago that was?"

His eyes went down to his desk as he thought. After a moment, his eyes came back up to meet Deeandra's as he replied, "Four or five years ago, I think. I only really remember them, because Erika would come to me in my office to ask about her daughter. She was worried about the state of her soul, saying that her daughter was straying from God and had begun to dabble in the occult." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

Nodding, Deeandra said nothing to that.

"But you don't recall Mildred coming here?" she inquired.

The pastor shook his head, a few of his wrinkled deepening. "No, I don't remember seeing her here, just her mother and father. Erika said once she had tried to get her daughter to come once so we could all speak together, but it seems she had never agreed to that."

"Was Mrs. Anders and her husband in a Bible group with Mr. or Mrs. McGee?"

"Not that I know of, but I can give you names of Bible group leaders who could help."

Over the next few minutes, Deeandra asked some more questions and then thanked the minister for his time.

"God bless you on your mission, Detective." The man smiled warmly, standing as Deeandra began to leave.

Returning the gesture, Deeandra gave a nod. "Thank you, Mr. Fenris."

By the time Deeandra made her way home, she had spoken to two of the five Bible group leaders the pastor had told her about. It was looking like while Mildred's parents had been pretty active in the church, their daughter had stopped attending services in high school. Nickolas and Caroline, however, hadn't been very active and looked like they hadn't been in any Bible group. Deeandra had to keep everything written down to keep it all straight.

There was every possibility that The Fallen Angel could be going to this church. She wanted to check into it, but there were hundreds of church members. Also, it seemed that Mildred had never stepped foot into that church, and it was likely that her husband never had either. There was no real direct connection, but it was the best they had.

"_Hands up if you think the pastor did it."_

Deeandra shook her head. Of course Emerson would say something like that, tone joking and mouth curved in a smirk that said he wanted Deeandra to laugh.

"_Don't worry, Raindrop. You'll catch the bastard."_

_I'd better_, she mumbled in her mind, tone almost a growl. _No fucking way I want this ass-wipe screwing with another family._

"_Hmm… I forget. Did _I _teach you to use such language, or was it the other way around?"_

This time, Deeandra _did_ roll her eyes, shoving her key into the deadbolt. "My dad was in the marines before he became a deputy here," she muttered bitterly. "Sue me."

"_Can't. I've been dead for almost four years. I don't think many lawyers own an Ouija board."_

Now she chuckled, disabling the house alarm and locking the door behind her. The front door opened into a short hallway, a wide archway opening into the den on the right. Deeandra dropped her black messenger bag onto the couch and went to one of the cabinets by the fire place, which was below the flat screen TV mounted onto the burgundy-painted wall. From the maple-wood cabinet, Deeandra retrieved a small jar of mixed dried herbs. She also got a charcoal tablet. She placed the tablet on a dish on the table between the couch and archway, in front of a silver reading lamp with a flexible neck. A few pinches of the dried herbs were then placed onto the tablet.

In the drawer of the end table was a large box of matches, and it was not long before the loose incense was lit, the scent of frankincense, sandalwood, and bay leaves filling the room. The salt in the mixture caused a small spark here and there, and Deeandra smiled as she took a deep breath, taking her hair out of the high ponytail she had put it in earlier, as she often did at work. She then turned on her TV and used it to go onto a music site.

"Tabitha King," Deeandra commanded, making sure to enunciate.

The screen showed four of the artist's CDs.

"_Tree Climbing_." Deeandra sat on the couch as the cover of the CD she chose came onto the screen. "Shuffle." Soon, the fifth song, "Why Hearts Bleed", came on. The notes were soft, the guitar and bass barely heard in the background. Soon, the bass drum gave a thundering **thump** as Tabitha King hit a jarring chord on her keyboard and began to sing, husky voice almost haunting.

Sitting on the red futon couch, Deeandra felt her muscles relax as she got out some folders and placed them onto the square, maple-wood coffee table. She poured over the documents and pictures once more, full lips moving to the words as she read them and eyes shimmering as they poured over the pictures. As she looked, she shed her coat, leaving a burnt sienna top with a V-neck and three-quarter sleeves that brought out the brown specks in her eyes.

It had been recently discovered that the item used to stab Mildred Schwartz in the side had been a dagger instead of the knife. A mold had been created, showing it to be seven inches in length. It was a good discovery, and Heglin had Diddlebock and Johansen checking different places for where The Fallen Angel could have gotten the dagger. It was not yet known where he got the cicutoxin, but Deeandra and Heglin had both come to the conclusion that the killer could be growing water hemlock in his house.

"_Something tells me this would be a time you'd rather he be growing pot."_

Better than a poisonous plant being used to kill people.

As "Moonrise" began to play, Deeandra's mobile vibrated in her jeans pocket.

"Hardt," she answered without looking at the caller ID.

"Sweetie?"

Deeandra's eyes snapped up from the papers spread around before her. "Mom?"

"I've been trying to call you, but I guess you were working, my little busy bee. I keep forgetting." Deeandra's mom likely bopped herself on the head at that. "Are you alright, honeybun?"

Debbie Dooley had always been pretty smothering when Deeandra was younger, even up through her first few years in college. There had always been a nanny cam trained on her as a young child, even in kindergarten—Debbie and Mrs. Abbott had gotten into a heated argument about it when the janitor had discovered the camera hiding in Suzie, the pet hibiscus. (Yes, while the other classes had gotten hamsters, rats, or lizards, Mrs. Abbott's class had only had a _plant_ as the class pet.) Most baby-sitters had been interviewed beforehand, and it had never been Deputy Dooley any boys hoping to ask Deeandra on a date would have to worry about. A six-foot-seven man reassembling a pistol had _nothing_ over a five-foot-three woman sipping tea and offering her famous snickerdoodles.

"_I know that's right…."_

"I'm fine, Mom," Deeandra replied, smiling lightly. "A little exasperated, but I'm fine. I'm sure we'll get him."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that, sweetheart. You're my and your father's daughter. You _betcha_ you'll catch him."

"Thanks, Mom." There must be magic in a mother's encouragement. It was already raising Deeandra's spirit. "Until then, though, think you and Dad could maybe go on a trip? Maybe visit Nana and Pawpaw in Johnston? Or Gran-Gran and Poppi in Phoenix? Or even Aunt Dahliliah in Bossier City?"

She had a large family all over the US, and she also had some cousins in various branches in the military stationed in different places across the globe. Her mother used to tell Deeandra's potential boyfriends that if he made her "darling Dee-Dee" cry, there would be nowhere in the world for him to hide.

"Okey-dokey artichoke-ie! Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll be safe. Just make sure you do as well, alright?" Debbie's tone made it clear that there was only one answer to this, and if anyone got in the way of making that answer untrue, he or she would be hunted down like a dog.

"Yes, Mom, I'll be safe."

"Good. Now, I'll call Nana, and you get to work on throwing this sick bastard's rotten ass in jail."

"Okay." Deeandra took a breath after hanging up, looking back at the papers.

"_Looks like we were both wrong. It was your _mother_ that gave you that mouth."_

_Damn, I wish I could glare at you… Yep, I'm going crazy,_ Deeandra thought as she shook her head and got back to work. Minutes later, her cell began to vibrate. "Hardt." She listened for a moment as "Tree Climbing" played. Immediately, her skin paled, and her eyes went wide. "I'll be right there!"

In a swift motion, she ended the call and stuffed her phone back into her pocket, grabbed her coat and keys, and headed for the door.

"_Shit_! God damn it all to _hell_!" she shrieked, gritting her teeth.

**_Mrs. Dooley's speech is hard to write, but I think I did it alright. -.-" I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. I didn't know this when I first started writing Blind World, but religion is going to have a pretty big part in this story. Religion and aspects of religion has already made many different appearances so far, and they'll continue to show up. And as seen in the beginning, different characters follow different paths, but as shown with Ivy and the Fallen Angel, Christianity takes a larger stage. Sorry to those that don't typically like to see the subject of religion being prominent in a story, but that's how Blind World is beginning to go. Anyway, I hope everyone continues to enjoy my story! Please feel free to tell me what you think. :)_**


	11. Copycat

**Chapter 11: Copycat  
Tuesday, 29 March 2039 – Deeandra**

"_Keep your fears to yourself but share your courage with others." - Robert Louis Stevenson_

The autopsy room was a place Deeandra had never enjoyed being in. The smell had been the biggest reason for that, and the nude bodies lying on the metal tables with their torsos cut open and rib cages set aside as the organs were harvested to find various pieces of evidence was a very close second. Over the years, the detective had gotten used to both. Her first visit had been with her father when she was thirteen—the visit had been the end of her rebellious stage. Seeing a dead body in real life was nothing like seeing one on TV or on the big screen.

Watching a show or movie, only one of the senses was used. In the examination room, it was all five. The smell had been in the air, sticking to her taste buds and making her want to vomit and clap both hands over her nose and mouth. Her eyes had beheld the corpse that had so unwillingly relinquished its soul. Her ears had exploded with its silence. Deeandra's hand had shook, hanging inches from the woman's bare shoulder before she had finally run out of the room, shaking and sobbing with dread, guilt, and that all-too heavy realization: It could have been her.

It had been an image that had haunted her. It had made Debby yell at Doug for traumatizing her little girl. Neither had really guessed that such a scene would have made Deeandra want to stop such tragedy and horror from befalling another. Death was natural; murder was anything but.

"What do you have for me, Calloway?" Deeandra walked through the doors into the sterile room, stopping inches from the table holding the male body.

Calloway turned from the woman on the other table, his hazel eyes meeting Deeandra's. "I do believe you have a copycat on your hands."

"That's what I was afraid of," she growled, eyes moving down to the corpse of the man that had once had dirty blond hair but was now bald, shallow lacerations all over his scalp. "It seems a little early for one, though, doesn't it?"

The medical examiner shrugged. "Just another psychopath riding on another's fame, but, yes, it _does_ seem rather soon. We usually don't see one until the original is caught."

"Think they're in contact?"

"Not likely," replied Calloway as he shook his head, wide mouth twisting to show that he was just as frustrated as the homicide detective.

The door opened just as Calloway was about to speak. It was Heglin, and he took a place by Deeandra. "Sorry. This is a copycat, isn't it? It doesn't completely fit with the others, even though the wife's placement had escalated as we've predicted."

Deeandra gave a nod. "I think the copycat wanted to add his own flare to it as if to one-up the original killer." She looked back at the coroner. "You said they likely wouldn't be in contact?"

Heglin spoke instead of Calloway: "Right. Serial killers are usually narcissistic. It's more likely they'd actually hate each other, and the real Fallen Angel probably wants the copycat dead."

Calloway nodded in agreement as Deeandra nodded in understanding.

"As you see," Calloway said, indicating to the man's scalp, "Mr. Prevatte's hair had been _shaved_ off, not yanked out like the others'. Also, the blade used to cut off his lips had a serrated edge whereas the others' had been cut with a smooth blade. The wings were drawn with the same serrated blade—not like the smooth, likely surgical, blade used with the others—and had a more unsteady hand with many slips, like he wasn't used to maneuvering the blade this way and was still getting the hang with it."

"He better _stop_ getting the hang of it," Deeandra mumbled, arms crossed.

Continuing, Calloway rolled the body over some so the other two could see his mutilated back. "He was also stabbed in a different place, and there had been multiple attempts, like he'd had trouble finding the right space. With our other two, the Fallen Angel had only needed _one_ try to get it right." He rolled the body back into a lying position and moved over to the woman with the forensic scientist and detective following him. "The woman was also originally a brunette and had dyed her hair, whereas our other two women were natural blondes. She had also been slipped Triazolam, but it had been in_gested_, not in_jected_. It looks like it had been mixed into her glass of wine, but that wasn't what had killed her. It had likely caused seizures, leading to a coma. It wasn't until she had been nailed to the cross set up in her living room that she suffocated."

It was so chilling to know that, not one, but _two_ people were actually psycho enough to actually do this. In her free time in high school and college, Deeandra had read about serial killers around the world as well as various unsolved cases as well as true crime novels that had looked interesting.

There had been Gilles de Rais, who had raped and murdered many young boys (and a few girls) with blond hair and blue eyes. The severed heads had often been set up by him and his accomplices to judge them. The Butcher of Rostov had raped, stabbed, and slashed many women and young girls. The Vampire of Sacramento had been a cannibal and had often drunk the blood of his victims.

The Fallen Angel had definitely made that list of gruesome murderers, and Deeandra wanted him and this copycat off the streets ASAP.

It was looking like "Beelzebub" (as Calloway had suggested dubbing the copycat) was just as good as covering his tracks as the Fallen Angel. Tracking him down would be no easy task, and it was likely that Mr. and Mrs. Prevatte wouldn't have any connection to the McGees or the Schwartzes. It was like starting with a blank slate she'd have to juggle with the other, focusing on not dropping either as well as keeping an eye out when a piece of chalk finally came her way to make a mark. She could try going back to the church. If she had made that small connection, it was likely that Beelzebub had as well.

Looking down at the woman's body, Calloway whispered, "O shadow of Death, forever / Looming over humanity—"

"He's reciting one of his poems," Heglin whispered into Deeandra's ear. "We better get going. Fast."

"Yep." She gave a nod and lifted a hand in a wave. "Thanks, Calloway. We'll be taking our leave. Call me if you find anything else."

The medical examiner waved but never paused in his poem.

Heading towards the staircase with Heglin to her left, Deeandra inquired, "Your guys find anything in Mildred's books?"

The older man shook his head, looking frustrated. "She didn't go into very big detail about her days, just the rituals and such. Also, her mother wants to get those back soon."

"I can understand that." Deeandra walked in the front as she climbed the stairs, taking out her memo pad and flipping to the more recent pages. "Well, from what I've gathered, our vics were Atheist, according to their son. However, Mrs. Prevatte used to be a choir director and had often brought her son with her to church until he was twelve and decided he didn't want to go anymore, and then she stopped going to church a year later, saying she no longer believed in the Christian faith."

"Which church?"

"A Baptist one, not far from where they lived and miles from the church the McGees attended." Deeandra shook her head. "I really think religion plays a big part in this."

"I think so too." Heglin stepped up to walk aside the detective as they went down the hallway. "The Schwartz family wasn't Christian and Mrs. McGee had been Atheist. Do you think that has something to do with how the Fallen Angel chooses his victims?"

"Like some new Inquisition?"

"Makes sense."

"True…" Deeandra held one hand beneath her chin, brow furrowed. "But why just married couples? When killing with that sort of motivation, I'd think he'd go after various individuals he feels practice 'unclean' ways, whatever they may be."

"Well, we're not exactly psychologists. We can't expect to know _why_ a killer would do what he does. We just need to focus on who so we can stop him."

"Yeah."

Only, Deeandra couldn't let go of the why. She needed to know _why_ someone felt the need to do something, even though she was often unable to comprehend such motivations. With the Fallen Angel, it had already been made obvious that religion had something to do with his motivation. Was it he was some sort of ultra-conservative that fell off the deep-end?

That sounded more like a movie plot, and that didn't ring right in Deeandra's ears. The kills were something very personal to the killer, so much that he took time to carve the wings almost perfectly—no matter how much Deeandra hated to use that description with anything related to a killer. The victims were married couples with children, telling the detective that this likely had something to do with the killer's childhood. Did his father have an affair with an authority figure in their church? Or maybe the father strayed from the church, which led to the family breaking apart? So then why did the wife have to be killed as well? What happened with the killer and his mother?

Maybe most of the others didn't want to look at the why because of the huge headache it caused.

Hours later, Deeandra was lying on her futon couch, hair spread around her head and teeth clenched. Loose incense burned on the charcoal tablet; the combined scent of sandalwood, galbanum, myrrh, frankincense, and lavender was supposed to create a calming atmosphere along with the modern classical music by Graziani on the TV. It'd been a long day, and just as she had thought, neither the senior nor junior pastor had known the McGees or Schwartzes. Mrs. Prevatte had not been seen at the church in two years.

"_Don't beat yourself up, Raindrop. You're going to need all your strength to catch these guys."_

Pushing the damp washcloth from her eyes to her forehead, Deeandra mumbled, "What I want to know is how the hell no one saw someone dragging a big-ass cross into the goddamned house."

The estimated time of death had been about 10:00 to 10:30 at night, and her husband had been killed about an hour later. It was likely the killer had slipped in the drug, tortured the husband for a while, nailed the woman to the cross, and then finished off the man. It had been guessed that the cross could have been assembled in the house.

"Ugh… Not only do I have to worry about the Fallen fucking Angel, but now I also have to stress over Beelzebub?!"

"_They're giving you a guy to work with, at least."_

"I hate partners."

"_You hate murderers more."_

That was very true, but that didn't make the fact that Deeandra was going to be forced to work with somebody any easier. She had never been much of a team player. Having gone from third grade to sixth and getting a score of 173 on her IQ test, she had always been separated from others in childhood, and she had even been mostly anti-social in college. She'd gotten her baccalaureate at the age of nineteen and her master's at the age of twenty-three. She's been the youngest on the force and had always felt the need to prove herself, which had often meant doing things on her own.

However, as long as both sick bastards were caught, Deeandra figured she could put up with someone second-guessing her.

One thing everyone had agreed on, though, was that the appearance of this copycat meant that the Fallen Angel was likely to strike soon. Some thought maybe he would send in a note or do something to show that this latest kill had been done by someone else—narcissism working against him. Heglin, however, thought that any such message would be left with his next kill, and it would likely be very subtle. The Fallen Angel was careful, and Heglin doubted that he'd let egotism get him caught. Deeandra agreed, and she wished she knew how the Fallen Angel chose his victims. Maybe then she could get a clue to who he might choose next.

"_Listen to your intuition, Raindrop. What's it telling you?"_

Deeandra sat up and threw the wash cloth towards the doorway that led into the kitchen, but she missed, and it ended up next to the fire place. "It's telling me I'm screwed."

**_I hope you all enojoyed the chapter. :) Please tell me what you think so far._**


	12. Yin and Yang

**Chapter 12: Yin and Yang  
Tuesday, 29 March 2039 – Charlotte**

"_It is doubtless true that religion has been the world's psychiatrist throughout the centuries." - Karl Menninger  
_

Mahler's "Urlicht" spun through the air as Charlotte danced. She had the area to herself for now; the lights were dimmed and some candles were lit at the corners of the spacious room. Her short-sleeved, pale pink leotard hugged her body as she moved, and her white, chiffon wrap skirt moved about her thighs like petals moving as the wind commanded. She twirled and leaped, moving to the music and allowing her mouth to curve into a small smile as she found peace.

Dancing, especially ballet, was how she was able to move past any heavy emotions. When she danced, she was light as air, and all of those emotions fell from her and plummeted deep into the earth.

When the song ended, Charlotte was in the center of the room in fourth position. She turned off the music as one of her hands moved to brush loose honey-colored strands away from her face. Her hair had been pulled back tightly, but the five-year-old, knitted bun holder was beginning to slip off, and some bobby pins littered the floor.

"Full lights," Charlotte ordered, making sure to enunciate—there had been a few times she wanted more light and had only been rewarded with darkness.

The lights brightened, and the woman went over to one of the walls covered in mirrors to touch up her bun. She picked up the bobby pins and hummed as she bundled up her long, thick locks at the back of her head. Sparkling just above the space between her eyebrows was a teardrop-shaped bindi with golden swirls that reflected back the light. The sight of it made her smile a little wider. It took a little while before she had her hair the way she wanted it, but once it was up and tucked into the bun holder (she also used a ribbon that had been around her wrist to keep it in place), there was a knock at the door.

"Yeah?" Charlotte picked up a snuffer that was shaped like scissors. She used it to extinguish the pillar candles, the door opening when she was nearly done. The room began to smell of burnt wicks.

Coming in was Demi Irani, the school's owner. Her raven hair was pulled back into a French braid, the tips brushing along the nape of her swanlike neck. She wore a black leotard that left a portion of her back bare, and she had a burgundy skirt tied around her tiny waist, the hem hanging an inch above her ankles.

"How were the students today?" Demi went to one of the bars and gasped it before beginning some simple stretches.

Looking over at her, Charlotte could see that Demi was using the mirror to look back at her. The grey-eyed woman was often seen as strict by students and their parents, and she often came off as aloof. She was always very polite, her words delicately articulated and voice soft and most often unchallenging. At four-foot-ten, she was petite, but that just didn't seem like the best description to Charlotte. Demi had been described as birdlike, but the blonde saw her more as a cat. Beautiful, elegant, independent, regal, and able to strike fast and hard when needed.

"Good. Carmen was scaring Phoebe with stories about the serial killer, though." Charlotte switched the CD to Vivaldi and forwarded it to begin playing "La Notte", which was one of Demi's favorite songs. "How about your expert class? Are they almost ready for the spring recital?"

"They still have some work to do, but they are gifted dancers and hard workers. They will be ready."

Charlotte went to stretch alongside of her boss. They were friendly to each other and talked often here at the school; as both did not always care much for being sociable, they felt comfortable enough with each other. There was no pressure to fill any silence, only a bit of talking filling the void every so often.

Turning around to begin stretching her other leg, Demi inquired, "I trust you took care of Carmen and spoke to her parents about the teasing?"

"Yes, I have." Charlotte lifted her leg closest to the bar and set her foot up on it to bend over and touch her toes. "Carmen has apologized to Phoebe, and her parents said they would speak to her about being courteous and sensitive to others."

"Good. I won't tolerate less at my school."

"I understand."

The two were then quiet as they stretched and went through various routines. They continued like this for nearly an hour, and then Charlotte began to gather up her candles, putting them into a dark blue tote bag with faded silver moons and stars printed all over it. Tied to one of the straps was a purple ribbon that was half-way unraveled.

In the center of the room, Demi was sitting down, one leg bent to where her left foot was touching her right knee. She lifted her outstretched leg a few inches and slowly swung it out to the side, held it there, and brought it back before allowing her leg to sit back on the ground. She then repeated the process, eyes closed as she matter-of-factly commented, "You always have candles around when you dance."

"I like them." Charlotte dug through the eight-year-old bag to make sure she had the clothes she'd packed earlier in the day. "I tried to find answers with various religions over the years, and candles are usually a symbol, whether for enlightenment, guidance, prayer… They give me a sense of peace."

"Ah. Yes, I often light an oil lamp at my home when I feel stressed or out-of-sorts. My mother was Christian, and though she considered herself quite open-minded, she was still uneasy about my father's religion for a while." She began to stretch her left leg. "Their difference in religion resulted in their divorce, you have already heard."

"Yeah, I remember you telling me about that." Charlotte pulled the tote bag up to hang from her left shoulder. "But you didn't feel at home in a church?"

Demi was the daughter of Mrs. Donna Childers, who had been Charlotte's ballet instructor when she was a little girl.

"No, much to my mother's displeasure. She didn't like my father teaching me about Hinduism, but I felt more connected to it than Christianity. She has accepted it now, however." The woman with copper-toned skin reached forward to touch her toes, going so far that her chest actually pressed against her legs. "You?"

"I guess one could call me an eclectic," Charlotte responded. "I borrow bits from various religions. My foster parents all had different beliefs, and I had friends from all types of backgrounds. So I never felt comfortable with following just one specific path."

Demi lifted her arms up above her head as she stretched her back. "That makes sense."

"Have a good night, Demi."

"You as well."

Down the hall from that room was a restroom, and Charlotte went in there to change into her faded jeans and yellow ochre tank top. She also put on her braided leather cord necklace with a Taiji symbol charm hanging from it. It fell just below her collar bone, the bottom part falling beneath the collar of her shirt. She smiled in the mirror, always having loved yin-yang symbols. In light, there was always a spot of darkness, and in darkness, there was always a spot of light. Good and evil were interdependent, needing each other for balance.

The question Charlotte had always brought up in church (if she went) was if God was all-powerful, why allow the Devil to exist? It was a question that had always stumped most people and annoyed others. Finally, a girl her age had responded, "If there was no evil, how would we have good? If there was no hate, how could we know and appreciate love?"

After folding up her leotard, skirt, and tights and placing them and her shoes on top of her candles, Charlotte left the restroom. Her flip flops made a slight slapping sound on the tile as she walked. The sun was beginning his decent in the west as she reached her red IQ, and she headed home.

Upon arriving, Anya was trying to get Brigid inside, but the fifty-six-pound dog recognized the small car driving up to the garage and pulled against the leash, barking and panting excitedly.

Charlotte laughed as she exited her car. "Did Brigid take you on a nice walk, Anya?"

"Ha-ha!" Anya called back with heavy sarcasm. She dug her heels into the grass by the cobblestone path leading up to the front porch, trying to hold the Eurasian-German shepherd-Alaskan malamute mix back. "But yes, we had a very nice walk until Brigid spotted that cat trying to cross the street."

Finally, with a grunt, Anya let go of the purple leash to let the dog tackle her human. At the sudden motion, the red-headed woman stumbled back but managed to catch herself before falling into the garden.

Setting her bag on the driveway, Charlotte giggled as she hugged her four-year-old dog and scratched behind her ears. "Who's a good girl? Who's a good girl?"

Using the white scrunchie on her wrist to tie back her long, thick hair, which was a shade of last night's Merlot, Anya walked over towards Charlotte. "You're better with animals than you are with most people."

"Animals are more innocent." Charlotte cuddled Brigid, who licked her ear. "And Brigid is just the sweetest girl. I love you so much!" Her tone was babyish, and she finally got to her feet, taking up the leash and her bag. "How are the cats?"

"My day was wonderful, thank you for asking."

"Sorry, but my babies usually come first."

The two women entered the Victorian-style house, and Charlotte unhooked the leash from Brigid's harness as Amida darted over from the couch in the den, meowing. The large, white-and-orange cat weaved in and out of Charlotte's legs as she walked towards the kitchen, which was through the archway at the back of the den. Amida had Norwegian forest cat in her, so she was nearly four feet in length, and Charlotte noticed that her thick coat was damp.

"What happened?" she inquired, setting the bundled leash at the end of the granite counter and going to the cabinets above the stove.

Sitting at the square table near the sliding door, Anya replied, "Ami was pestering Dreamcatcher again, chasing her out into the backyard when Mason opened the door to sit on the deck. Dreamcather rounded the pond, but Ami's a little clumsy and fell in."

"Aw, poor baby!" Once Charlotte had Amida in her arms, the cat closed her eyes and began to purr, rubbing her head against Charlotte's chin. Sitting next to her was Brigid, who looked up at her and panted happily. "But you deserve it for being mean to Dream."

She set her down, and Amida let out another meow before trotting over to Anya in hopes of her offering love.

"Would you like some tea?" Charlotte inquired, taking down the jar with white tea leaves, chamomile blossoms, sunflower petals, rose chips, and bits of dried peach. There were twenty-four jars in all, most of them holding herbs Charlotte had grown herself.

Anya gave into Amida's demands and set her on her lap. "Sure. Rose and violet? I haven't tried that one yet."

"Okay." Charlotte got down the correct jar and then retrieved the kettle from next to the sink. "So Dreamcatcher outwitted Amida. What about Neroli and Briar?" She got two mugs and used one to measure the amount of water to put into the kettle before setting it onto the stovetop.

"Neroli watched everything from the window and is now upstairs, taking up as much space on Mason's bed as possible. Briar is in the loft, but he's in the cat tree, apparently holding Ami's toy mouse hostage." Anya scratched Amida behind her ears and along her neck, smiling as the cat purred. "Mason also gave Ami a bath after her little dip, so one of your towels has blood stains all over it."

Chuckling, Charlotte went over to the table and slid into the booth that was pushed into the corner. The bench had a ledge that travelled along the top of it, holding a pot of lavender and rosemary at the corner and various objects. "Poor guy. I guess staying here hasn't helped his stance with preferring dogs over cats."

At that, Brigid barked, as if saying that that was a good opinion.

"Yeah, probably not," Anya said around a giggle. "While we wait for the water to boil, think you can give me a reading?"

"Sure. With what?"

"Runes?"

"Okay." Charlotte reached over for the purple drawstring bag next to the pot in the corner. She shook the bag and then opened it. "Choose nine stones, shake them in your hands a bit, and then drop them over the table."

Anya did as told, Amida becoming bored and heading off to the den. She enclosed her hands over the nine rectangular pieces of obsidian and shook them up before dropping them from a few inches above the table's surface.

"Huh, they almost form a heart." Charlotte's grey-green-blue eyes lifted up to Anya's pine green orbs. "Your question wouldn't have something to do with Toby, would it?" A corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk as scarlet covered Anya's cheeks, contrasting with her alabaster skin.

"Just read the runes," she mumbled.

Starting with the runes closest to Anya, Charlotte interpreted the gold marks on the stones. After reading the upright ones, she turned over the four upside-down ones, the water beginning to boil. She then paused in the reading, Anya going to prepare the tea.

Once she brought the tea over and sat down, Charlotte questioned, "So… You just going to wait for Toby, or will _you_ propose to him?"

Nearly dropping the mug with flower designs on it, Anya choked on a sip of her tea. "Wait, what?!"

Charlotte pointed at one of the runes. "Gebo, or 'gift'. It usually means partnership and was one of the overturned runes. I'm guessing you want to marry him, but you haven't brought it up. You're keeping it a secret, probably thinking about how he'd respond."

"Well…"

"He'd accept, you know." Charlotte smiled, eyes shimmering. "And according to your reading, you'll find happiness with Toby. There will be obstacles along the way, but aren't there always?"

Staring at the stones, a thoughtful look fell over Anya's face. "I guess I've just always expected it'd be the guy proposing to me, not the other way around."

Gathering up the stones, Charlotte replied, "My parents' original marriage ceremony hadn't been sanctioned by the state and wasn't made legal until almost nineteen years later; PJ couldn't afford a nice ring when he had proposed to Jennifer and used a Sharpie to mark a place on her finger instead; the building Teddy had wanted to get married in was due for demolition, so she had ended up saying her vows surrounded by rubble; and Mason had proposed to me with a deck of Tarot cards he had designed himself. There's nothing 'expected' about marrying a Duncan."

Anya laughed. "That is very true."

_**Toby and Anya suggested staying with Charlotte at her house when the news of the serial killer came out. She lives in a large house, so she let them stay. Mason also called her to see if she was alright, and she ended up inviting him over, so he's staying in one of the upstairs guestrooms. Charlotte seems to be doing well, huh? She teaches some classes at the ballet school she once went to, she lives in a nice house, and Toby sometimes jokes with her that she's already started her cat collection. X3 Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed the chapter; feel free to tell me what you think! :D**_


	13. Always

**Chapter 13: Always  
Sunday, 17 April 2033 – Spencer**

"_Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence." - Eric Fromm_

At the motion of the usher that had been coming down the center aisle, Spencer got up, setting his program down where he had been sitting and taking the slip of red paper with his sin written on it with him to the cross. He nailed it to one of the arms, Teddy nailing her sin next to his. They then went back to their pew, and Spencer watched his wife out of the corner of his eye, wondering what had happened to those large smiles that would create deep dimples and light sparklers behind her warm brown eyes.

That had stopped years ago, and Spencer understood how she could still feel grief over the deaths of her parents. She kept saying that they were in a better place now, but it had never been with conviction. It oftentimes seemed like she wasn't sure at all what she believed anymore. She was just going through the motions.

Once all of the sins had been nailed to the cross, the pastor went up to the front to lead the congregation in prayer, followed by two other songs and then a closing statement. It was pretty much the same thing every Easter, though the cross was new this year. Spencer took Teddy's hand out of habit as they left the church. She didn't fight it, allowing him to lead her to their car as if she were a lemming.

Teddy Rachel Duncan Walsh was no lemming. She was no sheep. She never shut herself down and blindly followed anyone. It was simply against her nature, and as she slid into the passenger seat when Spencer opened the door for her, he felt his heart drop. This wasn't the woman he had fallen in love with. This was an empty shell, the soul drifting through Purgatory.

"Nice sermon, huh?" Spencer attempted as he left the parking lot.

"Yes, it was." Teddy's voice sounded hollow, and her eyes looked blank.

It was several more minutes before Spencer attempted to speak again. "What would you like for lunch?"

"I don't know. I'm not very hungry."

"I could make something light. How does soup sound?"

"Fine."

They didn't speak after that.

Once home, Spencer changed into jeans and a button-up shirt while Teddy didn't even bother and simply shuffled to the table into the kitchen. Cocoa and Rascal went up to her, sensing that something was wrong, but she only pet the Shetland sheepdog's head absent-mindedly as Rascal laid his head on her lap, giving a soft whine. Spencer gave the collie a pat before making some tomato soup and toast as well as tea. Teddy only nodded in thanks, and it was a while before she finally began to eat.

After eating and drinking half of her black tea with almond milk and sugar, Teddy went over to the L-shaped couch, the dogs following her. As she lay down on the stiff cushions, Spencer came over, sitting down and easing himself over to where Teddy's head was on his lap.

"Please talk to me," he whispered, stroking her head as Cocoa and Rascal lay down on the hardwood floor, looking up at Teddy with sad eyes as if begging her to smile again. "I can't stand seeing you like this. What is it?"

For several long minutes, Teddy was silent. She stared into space, unblinking lips moving every so often, but no sound able to escape. Finally, she was able to squeak, "You should be with someone else."

"Teddy—"

"Don't even try to argue. I can't stand it anymore…" Her voice cracked, and Spencer felt hot tears hitting his legs.

"Shh…" The man sat her up to embrace her. "Please don't talk like that. We agreed to be together for better or for worse. No matter what, I'll stay with you as long as you allow me to."

Shaking, Teddy sobbed into her husband's shirt. "It's been so long… I feel like someone's been chipping me apart little by little."

Knowing there wasn't anything he could say, Spencer just stroked his wife's head and stayed silent. He couldn't pressure her into continuing. Teddy had always been a strong, independent woman. She had enjoyed chivalry, liking it when Spencer opened doors for her and pulled out chairs for her, but, for the most part, she wanted what she wanted when she wanted. There had never been forcing her. A couple of Spencer's co-workers had always joked on him for being whipped, but that was far from true. Teddy would have never fallen in love with a wimp. She needed a man that was as strong as she was to help her stand up just as she could help him. Now was a time for Spencer to hold her, and he would never let go. If Teddy was going to let herself fall, she'd have to settle for Spencer positioning himself so she'd end up landing on top of him.

"Spencer…"Teddy hesitated. "Did you believe me? When I told you that Gabe couldn't have… have…"

"Yes," Spencer whispered with confidence. "I believed you. I had believed it even before you told me. I was sure Gabe couldn't have done it."

That had been such an awful time. Teddy had moved into the Wentz house while PJ had stayed with the Heglins. Charlie and Toby had been handed over to a social worker, and Gabe had been arrested at the scene. He had been found with a gun in his possession and blood splatter over his hoodie and jeans. Only, none of the blood had belonged to Amy or Bob, and neither of them had been killed by a gunshot wound. While Bob had been beaten to death by a blunt object, Amy had been drugged and strangled with a guitar wire.

Spencer's dad had taken on Gabe's case pro-bono and had been able to get him only twenty years. There hadn't been enough evidence to say Gabe killed his parents, and Spencer had always wondered if the case would forever go unsolved.

_Teddy...,_ he thought, _knows who… Could she…?_

His father had been the first to bring up the possibility—behind a closed door, of course. Spencer had overheard him when he'd gotten home from soccer practice early. He had wanted to burst into that room right then to defend his hurting girlfriend, but he had (regretfully) admitted to himself that there was that possibility. She had always been so adamant about Gabe's innocence. It could have been just that she couldn't stand thinking her little brother capable of such a thing, but she had never really tried to dispute that he had killed Bob Diddlebock except for saying that everyone was innocent until proven guilty. She had become jumpy and even more flighty than usual. She and Ivy had seemed to become a little more distant, and she and PJ had pretty much stopped talking to one another altogether.

Everyone had probably thought either Teddy or PJ had had something to do with it at some point, and while Mr. Walsh had wanted to pursue it, Spencer had talked him out of it. He hadn't been able to stand the thought of Teddy being put through more stress. Besides, she had begun to become her normal self again after a while. There had been episodes, but this one was definitely one of the worst. In recent years, she had been declining. It was starting to look like she had finally reached the bottom of that deadly hole.

After taking some deep breaths, Teddy murmured, "I did it."

Spencer's hand froze in mid-stroke, his heart feeling like it had just frozen over and fallen through his twisting stomach.

"Me and PJ." She swallowed and began to shake.

Immediately, Spencer's need to protect and comfort his wife overrode any horror and shock he felt. He brought Teddy up into a sitting position and drew her close so that her chin rested on his shoulder. He rubbed circles over her back as she sobbed, trying to choke out the words she had obviously been wanting to get out for years now.

"I just couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't stand him being in the same house as me, acting like he hadn't… _defiled_ me." She spat out the word, and Spencer froze again.

No… Bob Duncan… He… _No_. Shock bled into rage, and he held Teddy more tightly. If Bob wasn't already dead, Spencer was sure he would have killed the bastard himself.

Teddy began to calm down a bit, her arms wrapping around Spencer's waist. "Do you remember… when I was out… of school for about… six weeks?" It was still hard for her to speak, her shallow, jagged breathing getting in the way.

"Yes."

Teddy was silent for several moments. "Charlie isn't my sister…" She hesitated again. "She's my _daughter_. Mom faked her pregnancy, and she… made me give birth in my room. Luckily, Charlie… had been a small baby. As long as I wore baggy shirts…, no one… noticed. Dad…" She scrunched up her face as if the word were like acid on her tongue. "He was so angry at Mom… and took it out on me." Her voice was no more than a squeak, and she held onto Spencer tightly like he was the only thing keeping her on Earth. "He and Mom acted… like Charlie was theirs. Mom… All she cared about was Dad forgiving her for something that happened… with Bob Diddlebock. He _raped_ her like…" She buried her face into Spencer's shirt.

"Shh…" Spencer held her, tears sliding down his cheeks. He couldn't believe all Teddy had been through. "I'm right here. No matter what. Teddy, I don't want a divorce. I don't care what's happened. I'm here for you. Always. Please, tell me what happened. You need to do this."

Nodding vigorously, Teddy began her tale. Her voice still shook, and there were times where she had to pause bring herself out of that ocean of memories before she drowned. Spencer held her up, trying to keep himself under control as he listened to her spill her soul out to him:

For years, Teddy had been talking about if she could get the chance to get back at her dad somehow. Those thoughts had first only been shared with her journal (one kept on a password-protected document rather than her videos), then Ivy, and then PJ. The three would talk in the basement about what they could do, and, eventually, Emmett had begun to join the "planning". It had seemed harmless back then. It had mostly just been a hate club if anything. Teddy had explained to the other three exactly what had happened that night (even PJ had only known the barest of details, as he and Gabe had been told by Bob and Amy that Teddy had gotten with a boy at school one night) and what she understood Bob's warped reasoning to have been to do such a thing.

As time went by, everyone had spoken about possible murder ideas, and Teddy had written them all down. She had begun to watch those crime shows and movies with PJ and Gabe, and she began to read more true crime books, mostly about unsolved murders. Soon, one factor had kept coming up: Amy. She would lay her own life down for her husband. She had practically _offered_ Teddy up to him! And for what? Forgiveness?! Who the hell wants forgiveness form the _devil_?!

Amy had needed to die. She would have turned them in if not dealt with, and she had been just as guilty as Bob.

Teddy had become more and more serious about killing them, but as much as she had wanted to be the one delivering the fatal blow to her rapist, there was a part of her that just couldn't do it. It had had nothing to do with him being her dad. He was _not_ her father. Fathers don't rape their daughters. They don't hit their children for being another man's biological son.

Only PJ had known early on just how serious Teddy was, and he hadn't been able to stand being in the same house as that monster either. He would have moved out soon, but his siblings would have ended up being stuck in that hell house. He had agreed to kill Bob, and Teddy would take care of Amy. They had been planning what to do. Teddy had thought toxins might be best, but PJ had wanted Bob to suffer. He had taken Gabe's old baseball bat while Teddy had taken one of PJ's new guitar wires and sleeping pills stolen from Mrs. Dabney's house.

On the night of the murder, Gabe had been supposed to be at Jake's house. Charlie and Toby had been put to bed, and Bob had been relaxing in front of the TV while Amy treated herself to a cup of tea with cream and sugar along with an éclair she had hidden away earlier that day. While Amy had gone into the small refrigerator in the garage to get her éclair, Teddy had dumped the crushed pills into her tea, stirring it before going to hide and wait. It hadn't taken long for Amy to lose consciousness, making it easy for Teddy to strangle her.

While that had happened, PJ had gone into the living room with the bat. Bob had begun to doze off, donut crumbs littering his work shirt, which he hadn't bothered to change out of. PJ had hit him hard in the kneecaps, shattering them and waking Bob up. The man had bellowed, which PJ silenced with a swing to his jaw. PJ had just kept hitting him, Bob attempting to crawl towards the kitchen door before his eldest son delivered the final blow, which had been to the back of the head, breaking though the skull.

At some point, Charlie had woken up, the little girl coming out of her room as Gabe returned, his hoodie covered in blood. The thirteen-year-old boy had just stood at the front door with wide eyes, staring at Teddy as she was about to leave out the back door to meet Ivy.

Charlie's scream had echoed throughout the house, followed shortly by Toby's wails as Teddy had shaken her head and mouthed to her little brother, "I'm so sorry." She had then run out of there, clutching the wire in her hands.

Taking deep breaths, Spencer grasped his wife's hands, tears spilling over his cheeks as he stared into those warm, golden-brown eyes. "Let me protect you, Teddy."

Her eyes shimmered in sorrow and guilt as her eyebrows knit in disbelief. "You'd still be here with me? Even after—"

"You saw no other way," Spencer whispered, sounding a little hesitant. He felt Teddy flinch, and he put more conviction into his voice as he said, "As I said, Teddy: I'm here for you. _Always_."

**_Sorry it took a while. ;-; I think I re-wrote this chapter three times... Okay, more was revealed about that night, at least. :3 I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and I'll be sure to be quicker with the next one. Please feel free to tell me what you think, and I hope y'all are liking Blind World. :D Getting ideas to who the Fallen Angel or Beezelbub is? Teddy's and PJ's killer(s)? I'm jumping all over the web here, but no one person has the entire story. Enjoy finding the places for the various pieces as the story progresses! :3_**


	14. Taste of Hell

**Chapter 14: Taste of Hell  
Wednesday, 30 March 2039 – Jo**

"_Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it." - Siddhattha Gautama_

The wig was dark brown with a soft undertone of red that made it almost auburn. The longest of the layered locks fell to her small waist, and the bangs brushed along her short lashes and were longer at the sides to frame her heart-shaped face. Jo didn't like having to wear this thing for hours at a time, the cap often hurting her head. She also still wasn't used to the make-up or skimpy clothing. However, the money was excellent. That was her excuse over and over again for not quitting and going back to her art. That was her excuse for whispering in men's ears as her hands explored their bodies slowly and teasingly, finding just the right spots to knead and rub.

It wasn't like she was a prostitute or stripper, but it was close enough. She wore clothes she had once scowled at; she wore a wig and make-up; and she went by a fake name: Spice.

Today, Jo wore a red corset top with a long, black ribbon that tied at the back and just about cut off her air. Black lace went around the top, and a single black strap started at the right side, going to her left shoulder. Even though she knew it was secure, it was low enough that she felt like any wrong move would make it slip and show off her breasts, which now looked a cup size bigger than they really were. An inch of her flesh between the top and her leather pants was shown off, and a chain-link belt hung over her hips. Completing the outfit were knee-high boots with three-inch heels that were too thin to be able to support any weight.

With a sigh, Jo put in her fake lip and eyebrow piercings, small nose wrinkling. She looked like a dominatrix. She had even had guys call her 'Mistress Spice' before. She hated it, but with her attitude, her boss, Leanne Anders, had thought that this image was perfect for her. Everyone wanted to be able to get a taste of Hell before discovering if the flames were going to engulf him or not.

_Upon entering the booth and sitting on the uncomfortable, wooden bench, Jo let out a heavy sigh. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned."_

"_When was your last confession, my child?" asked Father Shepard. Jo could see his silhouette through the filter between the two booths._

_Swallowing, Jo bowed her head, her brown waves cascading over her hunched shoulders. "Thirteen years, father." Her nails, made short and ragged from her chewing on them, dug into her jeans, just below her kneecaps. "I had lost my faith, but now I don't know where else to turn."_

_St. Joseph's Cathedral had been the church Jo went to as a child until she was fourteen and had stormed out of the building in the middle of morning mass. She hadn't been able to stand the hypocrisy anymore. What gave these people the right to assume _they'd_ be the ones to ascend while anyone else that didn't fit into their doctrine would end up damned to the fires of Hell? What made them think they were the saved and everyone else was wrong? Some old book?!_

"_The Lord welcomes His children back with open arms," the priest told Jo confidently. "He is a merciful and loving Father."_

_Was He really? The God Jo had always learned about was a jealous god that demanded obedience and wanted His children to fear Him. Jo's beliefs had been placed on fear as a child. Love God or be damned. Love Him and _only_ Him or burn for eternity. Christians were right, and everyone else was wrong. That was what Jo had learned and why she hadn't been able to take being here anymore. She hadn't been able to take the bullying silently anymore. _

_Joanne Marie Keener was no sheep._

_So why did she return? Maybe she had just wanted someone she knew would condemn her to do so. Maybe she just wanted punishment—someone to tell her that she was horrible and going to Hell. So far, though, it sounded like not even Father Shepard would pull through with something as simple as that._

Smirking, Jo slowly made her way over towards her customer, rubbing the ylang-ylang oil over her palms. "'Morning, Mr. Shore." Jo's smirk grew as the middle age man's steel-grey eyes moved over her body as she moved her hips in a slow, enticing motion as she walked. "You been good?" She slapped his back hard, pushing down and forward in a slow, deliberate motion.

The clients here were usually prominent men in society, including Colorado's governor. Jo was a popular masseuse, and the soft moans Mr. Shore made as Jo rubbed the oil into his skin helped to prove this. She often made harsh motions, but she went deep into the tissue and muscle, hands teasing and always playing on the line of pain and pleasure.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. I promise." Mr. Shore had his arms folded beneath his head, eyes closed and mouth twitching. He had been married for nearly twenty years, but he had been a loyal customer to this place for about eight years and was known to have had affairs in the past. He claimed his last affair had been twelve years ago, and Jo was sure that his weekly visits to either her, Sugar, or Musa.

"Mm-hmm…" Jo made her tone sound skeptical. Her hands inched down his back, moving around towards his sides. She kept pressing down, coming back up a few inches as Mr. Shore made a sharp intake of air. "Really now…"

Jo may not be having sex with the guy, but with the sounds he made, she felt like she might as well. One of the reasons why "Spice" was so popular was that her "magic fingers" had sent guys into orgasms before. The other girls have congratulated her on that feat, but it was hard for Jo to see anything sexual as anything but nauseating anymore.

"_What is it, child?" Father Shepard inquired softly after a while when Jo remained silent. He sounded so calm and caring now. What had happened to the judgmental and angry man Jo had once known?_

_Hands clasping together in her lap, Jo confessed, "I… I had an abortion last month." Staring at nothing, Jo felt tears sting her eyes and stream down her cheeks in sharp, hot streaks._

_This time, it was the priest who was silent._

_Shoulders shaking, Jo grasped the edge of the bench on either side of her until her knuckles turned white. "I just didn't know what else to do, father," she sobbed. "I had no one to turn to."_

"_You could not turn to family? Friends?" He sounded hesitant, like he was trying to assess the situation and think of how to best give the right advice. "Why did you feel you had to turn to such a decision?"_

_Jo's breathing turned jagged, her nose beginning to run. She wiped it with her shirt, trying to keep her mind from returning to that horrible night. "My mom and I haven't gotten along in years, and I just couldn't talk to my dad about… _this_. And as for friends…" The woman shook her head slowly. "I've never really had any. Well, I had one friend. He was the only one I felt I could count on, but… he ended up in jail." Her voice fell at the end. She had said her life was pathetic before, but it was different admitting some of it aloud._

_In school, there had been kids that teased Jo, calling her a "cashew". Although she had been a cradle Catholic, her father had been Jewish. After marrying Savannah West, Gregory Keener decided to attend masses and raise his and Savannah's daughter as a Catholic. However, a year or so after Jo's first baptism, her father began to start going back to his Jewish roots little by little. He had begun to want Jo to know about these traditions as well, which Savannah hadn't liked. _

_The fighting had begun when Jo was six and had been going back and forth between church and the synagogue for about eight months. The fighting finally reached its peak when Jo neared her thirteenth birthday. Gregory and Savannah filed for divorce, and Savannah ended up with full custody. Jo was convinced that religion had played a factor in that decision, even though it was illegal for a judge to make the decision on such basis. _

_Jo had become hard with all the fighting continually surrounding her during childhood. She would lock herself up in her room and often had a neighbor take her to her karate class. She had become angry and cynical. The only person that had ever come close to breaking through her shell was Gabriel Duncan. Then the idiot just _had_ to get himself thrown into jail._

"_What about—"_

_Already knowing who Father Shepard was going to mention, Jo quickly interjected, "I still feel him in me, father."_

"_Who, my child?"_

_Bending forward, Jo's mouth opened wide. She felt like she was about to vomit, but she managed to get out, "The baby's father." She swallowed the bile beginning to creep up her esophagus. "The… the man who raped me."_

After her final client left, Jo changed back into her jeans and put away her fake piercings. The wig was placed onto a mannequin head in front of the mirror, and the cap was placed into the drawer with the others. She cleaned away her make-up and put up her hair into a high ponytail that showed off the silver barbell in her right ear. After fixing her navy blue cardigan that covered her long-sleeved top, Jo grabbed her purse so she could leave.

"Bye, Ira, Jamie, Dominica!" Jo offered a small smile as she waved.

The three women waved back, and Jo then gave a nod to Leanne. The woman was getting close to forty but still looked to be in her early thirties at the most. Her smiles had been more forced lately, and her white-blonde hair was limp, simply pulled back into a quick ponytail. It was easy to see the grief in those teal-colored eyes. It was completely understandable; everyone here knew about Leanne's younger sister, Mildred.

"Have a good night, Leanne."

The blonde smiled, putting away some money. "You too, Joanne."

Fixing the strap of her purse, Jo headed towards her car. She stopped upon seeing a man leaning against the driver's door, reading a book. He wore just a dark green T-shirt and jeans, and his dark brown hair was messed up instead of slicked back for once. The locks fell around his face, the breeze teasing them.

"Gabe?" Jo's heart was picking up speed. Why was he here? How had he found out where she'd been working? She had never told him, just that she was a masseuse.

It wasn't like _he_, of all people, had the right to judge whatever Jo did, but she had always cared about his opinion. Having had to lock up her heart in a box as a child and bury it deep within herself, Jo had been sure no one would have ever been able to get to her. Then, she had moved to Denver from Wyoming and got enrolled into Lincoln Elementary School. Upon entering Mrs. Mellish's class, her eyes found the annoying boy in a _Galaxy of Death_ hoodie arguing with a red-haired boy about video games. Upon trying to talk to him, Jo had felt some locks drop from that box she had been so careful with, and she had ended up punching him instead of saying anything.

That boy was here again, still destroying those locks with barely a thought. His dark brown eyes flickered up from the book, which he closed without even bothering to mark his place. It was a paperback with a torn and battered cover, and the pages were yellowed and likely had that scent of mildew most used books carried. It looked like either a crime drama or mystery, and Jo was almost too late to stop herself from smiling. Gabe had always loved those types of movies and shows. It was a little odd seeing him actually reading, but she guessed he had needed to find new ways to pass free time while in the joint.

Sauntering up towards the woman, Gabe tucked the book up under one arm. "Hey, Jo. How was your day?"

"G-good. Yours?"

"Alright. I got the day off for today. I saw some interesting people while I was in the area, though."

Jo paled.

"What are you doing here?" There was no condemnation in his eyes. No judgment. All there was… That was concern, and two more locks broke away.

_Instantly, the memories flooded back, quickly and relentlessly. The past refused to be forgotten. It kept its clutches on its victims, hissing in their ears that there was no future without it. There was no moving forward without acknowledging the past, without accepting it. Accepting it, however, meant reliving it. Looking back at it. Jo couldn't do it. She didn't _want_ to do it. The past hurt, and memories were torture chambers._

_In that booth, Jo was cast back to that night on her way back to her townhouse from the St. Agatha's Community College. She had gone there to develop some photos. She smiled thinking about where she could hang a few of them when a chill trickled down her spine, starting at the top of her neck. Jo stopped in her tracks, pulling her black tote bag closer to her and looking around. There were a few others walking, but day was bleeding into dusk. That along with the heat had kept most inside or in cars. Who could be watching her?_

Brad_…? She shook away the thought and kept watching, turning to cross the street. She wanted to cut through the park to get to her street. She sometimes took the cab, but Jo had always loved being in the heat, so she had opted to walk this time._

_Tucking some hair behind an ear, Jo listened carefully. She had to be paranoid. Brad had always been controlling and had roared at her when she left him. He was just an asshole._

_Jo blinked, forcing herself back into the confessional booth._

"_Child?" inquired Father Shepard, sounding concerned. "You… do not have to speak of this if it upsets you so. Take it with God. That is all I am able to advise."_

"_But, father…" Jo's bottom lip quivered. She was shoved back into the iron maiden, the past chuckling in a low pitch as it closed the door, forcing the spikes to get closer and closer to Jo's body. Each second stretched on like a week, and Jo could feel her breathing become shallower and jagged as she silently begged for it to just end and end quickly._

_It was hard to remember how Jo got from the park to the motel room, duct tape securing her wrists and ankles to the head- and footboards. All she could remember was staring into Brad's feral, hazel eyes. A cloth had been used to muffle any sounds Jo made, and any tear shed had just made that demon's smile grow, his expression filled with ferocity. Jo couldn't remember what he had said to her. She only remembered pain. She only remembered those hard thrusts that perverted the act that Jo had once held as sacred. She remembered biting down on the wash cloth, doing all she could to keep herself from crying—keep herself from satisfying this sick bastard any further. She remembered vomiting upon seeing that plus sign on the pregnancy test nearly a month later and reliving the nightmare over and over through the night._

_She remembered fearing that she may end up seeing Brad's face on her baby._

_Whimpering, Jo murmured, "I… I couldn't stand the thought of possibly hating my baby. And I knew two people who had gone through foster care. I just couldn't put my baby through that, and I couldn't guarantee it'd end up in a good home."_

"_Pray," Father Shepard entreated. "Pray to God about this. He will forgive you. Speak also to our Blessed Mother. She will listen and help you."_

"_How can I when I can't forgive myself?"_

_The priest was a bit hesitant again. "There was a young girl from years ago who said something very wise: We are all fortunate in that God, and not man, is the One who decides our fate."_

_A smile broke across Jo's face, shattering the iron maiden closing in around her. She had been the one to yell that at the congregation before storming out of the cathedral when she was fourteen. Father Shepard had been talking about interfaith marriages and how a non-Christian would always drag down the Christian in faith in their relationship. Jo had just known many of the members were thinking of her dad, and she had screamed, "All _I'm_ thankful to God for is that _you_ idiots aren't the ones who get to damn anyone to Hell!" _

_She could understand why Father Shepard would paraphrase her. Had Jo's anger- and hurt-filled words really made such an impression on this man and his views?_

"_Thank you, father."_

"_Of course, my child. God bless you always."_

Jo crossed her arms, eyes going to the ground. "I'm pretty sure you already know the answer to that, Gabe."

"I know it's the wrong one." Gabe was standing right in front of her, forcing Jo to look up slightly to meet his eyes. "Have you painted anything since it happened? Taken any photos? Made any sculptures? Even a sketch or doodle?"

Eyes flickering over to the side, Jo shook her head. "No. I… I can't."

"_Won't_."

Anger flared through Jo. "_You_ don't get to talk that way to me." Without a thought, her fist flew, caught in Gabe's hand. He twisted her wrist and side-stepped before she could make another move. His arms wrapped around her, and she froze, eyes wide and jaw slack.

The final lock had fallen away.

_**See, I got the next chapter up faster this time. :D Also, I'm not Catholic, so I've never been in a confession booth, so I don't really know about advice given. I mostly just took from what I've seen on TV or read in books and gave Father Shepard a fatherly-type personality (kind of thanks to Jo and what she said when she was 14 X3) like the priests I've gotten to know in the past. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. :) Please feel free to tell me what you think! :3**_


	15. New Partner

**Chapter 15: New Partner  
Wednesday, 30 March 2019 – Deeandra**

"_No great discovery was ever made without a bold guess." - Isaac Newton_

Deeandra's partner wasn't off to a great start in her opinion. As soon as she got to the office, she found him lounging in _her_ chair, at _her_ desk, reading _her_ file on _her_ case. Yes, they were now partners, but that didn't mean Deeandra had to like it. His slanted, almond-shaped eyes had a confident sparkle that was dangerously close to arrogance, and a corner of his mouth looked like it was always ready to quirk upwards to make a smirk. The fluorescent lights made his black hair almost shine blue, and he had it parted left of the center and grown to where it covered the top parts of his ears and nearly touched his lashes. He also had facial hair around his mouth, which made Deeandra wrinkle her nose.

Looking up as Deeandra entered, the man stood and held out his right hand. "Hi, you must be Detective Hardt. My name's Virgil Kurosawa."

A corner of her mouth turning up into a smirk, Deeandra took his hand in a firm shake. "So you're going to help me on this trip through Hell, huh?"

"Ha-ha, I haven't heard that one before." Kurosawa moved around the desk and set down the file, open to the case on Beelzebub, offering the slightly shorter woman—he was no more than an inch taller than her—back her chair. "Sorry if it looked like I was taking over. I got here about twenty minutes ago and wanted to go ahead and get started."

Plopping down into her chair, Deeandra set down the thermos filled with the kopi luwak coffee Meghan had given her several packs of. "Find anything?" She slid the folder closer to her.

Pulling over a folding chair from the nearby corner, Kurosawa placed it on the other side of the desk and sat down. He slouched some when he sat, forearms on the desk, one directly in front of the other. "Not much, but I have a hunch. I don't think this is the first time Beelzebub copied a killer."

Deeandra arched an eyebrow as she sipped her coffee. "How you think?"

"I deeply apologize for bringing this case back up—"

Instantly, Deeandra knew exactly what Kurosawa was talking about and braced herself.

"—but there was something found at the Prevatte house that sent me a flag. I kept raking my brain for what that was, and I finally remembered your late husband's case from almost four years ago. Remember that hair found near the site of the explosion?"

Swallowing and closing her eyes, the woman nodded. It was a horrible memory she couldn't escape, not when the killer was still out there—and apparently still killing if Kurosawa's hunch was correct. "It was identified as a cat whisker and didn't seem to be significant. There's quite a few cats that hang around the station—Emerson, some friends, and I left out food and water for the strays."

"Right, but it says here that there was a cat whisker found near the husband's body, but they have no cats. I'm thinking that the whisker could be part of his MO."

"What's the rest of it? Copying someone else?" Deeandra crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, one boot-clad foot resting on a drawer's handle. "Ugh, cat whisker, copying someone. He's trying to make a name for himself as the fucking _Copycat Killer_?!" _The fuck is that about?!_

"_Well, if he's killed others before me and this is the first someone has caught a connection, it's probably ingenious. Isn't the 'serial killers are all geniuses' myth supposed to be just that?"_

As Emerson and nearly all of Deeandra's English and Literature teachers had said, something being a "myth" did not always necessarily mean it was untrue.

"_Ah-ha, so you _did_ listen to me."_

It had sometimes been hard _not_ to listen to Emerson sometimes. He'd been a passionate man. He may not have always spoken about his beliefs, his opinion being that faith was something very personal, but when he did, there had been that sparkle in his brandy-colored eyes. Deeandra had always loved that sparkle, and she had never gotten tired of listening to him. She had loved his ideas, how he always questioned everything… She _still_ loved that. She had never been one for convention, and neither had Emerson. In some ways, he had actually lived up to his name, though he hadn't found Deeandra giving him a copy of _Walden_ for his birthday to be as amusing as she had.

_God I miss him…_.

Kurosawa seemed to catch something in Deeandra's eyes. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Deeandra took a deep breath.

She thought she had already accepted Emerson's death—had moved past it and had learned to move on with her life. Yet, she still felt helpless and hopeless upon the memory of that night trickling back into her mind. She realized that she had just been pushing everything back. She'd been keeping herself buried in work. She had never known how to deal with death. Her childhood had been happy and sheltered. Her rebellious phase had only lasted two months. She had met a wonderful, caring, and loving man in college. She had had a small, beautiful wedding. She had been ready to talk to her husband about adopting a child or two.

Then that perfect world had shattered in an instant.

The confident, almost arrogant, glint in Kurosawa's eyes melted into concern. "Are you sure?"

Nodding quickly, Deeandra pushes the memory back, slamming an iron door behind it. She could still hear the explosion soon after that goodbye. It was an explosion that seemed to have rocked the entire earth, Deeandra's heart plummeting into her stomach as lead pressed against the walls of her throat. There had been no thought before her legs had worked on their own accord, taking her outside where the SUV had been located. She remembered her own screams echoing through her ears and mind as people fought to hold her back, away from the flaming debris and burnt body parts that had once been her husband and his co-worker.

"It's…" Deeandra swallowed the bile creeping up her esophagus. "It's just hard."

Kurosawa nodded. "I understand, and, again, I apologize for bringing this back up."

Deeandra shook her head slowly, eyes still on her desk. They moved over to the frame still standing next to her computer monitor. Next to the frame was an electric votive, and she turned it on, the dim, orange light beginning to flicker. "Don't be sorry. We finally caught the Denver Bomber after that, but there was always something that told me he hadn't been the one to plant the bomb that killed Emerson." Her eyes finally rose to meet her partner's. "I want this bastard caught. He probably still thinks we don't even know his existence."

"If there's one good thing, I don't think he'll kill using the Fallen Angel's MO again. I'm not completely sure about this, but he probably just copies someone once before moving on to something else."

"But Denver's only had three serial killers in the past ten years, the Fallen Angel included."

"He could be going to various places in Colorado or even in a different state."

"Most serial killers tend to stay in one place, only moving outwards when they gain confidence."

Nodding, Kurosawa exhaled slowly, eyes moving downwards in thought. "Beelzebub probably has plenty of confidence, but you do have a point."

"Plus, you don't want to get the FBI involved." Deeandra wasn't crazy about that possibility either, and she took an angry swig of coffee, burning her tongue. _Dammit._

"No, but we may have to. I'll see what I can find, but going through evidence looking for a cat whisker is going to be tough."

"That's putting it mildly, _especially_ if you're right about Beelzebub killing in other states."

Sighing, Kurosawa bent back to stretch. "I'm sure I'll be able to find something, but because of his possible hand—"

"I understand," said Deeandra, "so I'll just stick with the devil, and you can share his advocate with the FBI."

"Well, hopefully, I won't have to share. There's the possibility that four years ago was his first time."

Deeandra pulled at her ponytail to tighten it and then nodded, mentally kicking the door to keep it shut. She couldn't let emotion get in her way. Her parents had raised a strong woman that could stay focused and do what was needed to do the right thing. The right thing now was to get the Fallen Angel off of the streets, and Deeandra couldn't let anything cloud her mind or so much as nudge her off that path.

Kurosawa pushed the closed folder on the side of the desk opposite of the computer towards her. "I've heard from others that you prefer to figure out the 'why' to figure out the 'who'. Got anything?"

Glad to be pushed back to the center of her path, Deeandra gave a nod and opened the folder. "Due to how the bodies are set up, it's safe to bet the killer has a religious background, possibly fanatical. The man's death is drawn out, whereas the woman often dies rather quickly. That tells me that there was likely abuse in the family, most likely done by the father, though the mother either likely also abused them or just simply never did anything to stop her husband."

"Sounds like way too many serial killers out there. Albert DeSalvo, or the Boston Strangler, was reported to have been abused, and his father had even broken Albert's mother's fingers while making him watch. Some speculate he and his siblings had even been sold to a farmer."

"Yeah, and their mother saved them." One of Deeandra's favorite classes had been abnormal psychology, and she had just loved going into the minds of criminals. What made a man or woman steal, abuse, assault, rape, or kill? There were so many components within the human mind, and there were still many more things to discover. Deeandra had once considered becoming a psycho-biologist or a forensic psychologist before changing her mind back to being a homicide detective. "The only thing I don't necessarily get is why the Fallen Angel waited three years to hit the next target. That's more than being just methodical. I thought that maybe the Fallen Angel may have tried to stop for a while, maybe find a substitute for killing."

"That sounds possible, and then he might have decided that the substitute wasn't as exciting as the real thing."

"Exactly, so he probably won't wait so long this time, especially with this stupid Copycat Killer." Deeandra drank more of her coffee and then rubbed her forehead, pushing her bangs up as she did so. "I just need to know how he finds these people. I found a church where the two families sort-of connect, but I haven't gotten very far with that."

"_Sort-of_ connected?"

"The first family went there, but the second didn't. Mildred Schwartz's parents went there for a few years, though, her mother often speaking with the preacher."

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah, as well as with the Bible study leaders. There isn't much to go on. The Schwartzes never went there, and the leaders don't recall meeting them."

"There could have been some sort of party held by one or more church member. Mildred's parents could have been invited, and they could have asked their daughter to come with her family."

Deeandra gave a nod. "I've thought of that, and I've talked to some church members that knew her parents already. So far, I don't have anything, but I've set up some other interviews for later today." She turned a page in the folder. "But something in my gut tells me no one at that church is connected."

Kurosawa gave a nod, turning his file back around so he could read it more easily. "I'd go with that feeling. I've heard your instincts are always right."

"Almost always, and I'd look somewhere else if I had any clue _where_ to go." The woman exhaled loudly and leaned forward, elbows going onto her desk and face going into her hands. "I just need one break."

"You'll get it." Kurosawa sounded very sure of himself. "These people have to make a mistake somewhere."

Nodding, Deeandra got up. "I'm going to look through the house again. Maybe I'll see something. You can go ahead and have my coffee, but, just so you know, the beans were harvested from weasel shit."

The woman sauntered out of the room, smirking as Kurosawa merely stared at the thermos. She then had to bite back a laugh as she heard one of the other detectives ask, "Did she just say…?"

With Deeandra at the house was Heglin, who handed her a pair of latex gloves. They agreed on Heglin checking downstairs while Deeandra looked upstairs. Although the bodies were gone and the blood had been cleaned away, Deeandra was sure she'd be able to find something else. Heglin knew that her instincts tended to lead her the right way and had tagged along, wanting this guy caught as much as she did.

In the master bedroom, which was above the garage, there was an altar on the east-facing wall, under the high-set window. It was a long, black table with drawers. The cloth was indigo with a labyrinth pattern in the center, surrounded by images of the moon phases. There was a gold pillar candle for the God and a silver one for the Goddess, and around the labyrinth image were the representations for the elements: incense that had burned out long ago for air, a red votive that was half-gone for fire, a small bowl of water for water, and a small bowl of salt for earth. Deeandra could still smell a bit of Palo Santo, desert sage, and lemon balm in the air. In the center of the labyrinth was a metal pentacle.

The Buddha statue on one end of the table, sitting behind a short, green taper smiled at the detective, as if wishing to offer his help. The crystal cluster on the other end of the table sparkled in the sunlight beginning to filter in through the blinds, sitting in front of a glass bottle that held what looked to be holy water. A Tarot deck was near the front, right corner of the altar, and there were three more decks on the nightstand by the right side of the bed behind Deeandra.

_There's something here,_ thought Deeandra with surety as her eyes searched the altar. She reached out and opened the three drawers that were side-by-side directly beneath the surface. The drawers were pretty deep and held various items for the altar. She found things for Samhain, Yule, Imbolc…

Closing the drawers, Deeandra knelt down to look at the many books piled on the floor below the table. That familiar feeling hit Deeandra, and she began to flip through the books. She had no idea what she was looking for, but upon flipping through a book about petition magick and spellcraft, she was sure she found her break.

"The Wheel of Fortune never stops turning…"

_**Deeandra may have just gotten her break in the case, and she may even be able to see Emerson's killer behind bars. :D I hope y'all enjoyed the chapter~ I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to get it up tonight, as I have just moved into my new dorm. :3 But it's up, and if work permits, I shall have the next one up soon. :)**_


	16. Cards

**Chapter 16: Cards  
Wednesday, 30 March 2039 – Deeandra**

"_Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like." - Lao Tzu_

The house looked like a carbon copy of all the others in the neighborhood: white walls and shutters, white door, perfectly-trimmed bushes along the front, and grass that looked like a ruler was used to measure its length each week. A narrower version of the sidewalk ran up to the front door in a straight line, and Deeandra wondered if the homeowner's society cited people if they dared to even put a flowerpot on a window sill. Only the numbers on the curb and front door helped tell the detective which was the correct house.

After ringing the bell, the detective waited for Mr. Rochester to see her in. He was Caroline McGee's father and, upon being asked, had said he'd found a Tarot card in one of Caroline's philosophy books.

The door was opened by a man that looked nearly a decade older than his age of sixty-one. Only wisps of his hair remained, so pale, it looked like he was completely bald. His face was heavily lined, and his cornflower blue eyes were exhausted and revealed the shell of a man still working through the depression that came from first losing his wife to cervical cancer, and then his daughter and son-in-law to murder a mere seven months later. This was a man that had seemed great loss in his life, still clinging to a thread of hope for life, ignoring the fact that the thread was too thin to hold his weight, and just trying to gather enough strength within himself to find a way out of the dark tunnel he'd been tossed into.

"Detective Hardt." His voice sounded as frail as his slightly-hunched body looked, and he gave a polite nod before stepping aside so Deeandra could come into his home. "I was surprised to get your call. This card… You think you can use it to find the killer?"

His eyes shone with an extra spark of hope. Another thread had just dropped next to him, allowing him to weave it with the one he already had so as to make it stronger. He was collecting as many threads as he could find to create a rope so he could climb out of the hole. It was a feeling Deeandra was familiar with, and she admired this man. He was going to keep fighting for hope, no matter how much it tried to elude him.

Hands in the pockets of her light grey sweater, the detective gave a sure nod, confidence burning through her eyes and veins. She was going to catch this bastard, and seeing Mr. Rochester gave her that extra boost in determination she needed.

"I'm sure of it."

Nodding, Mr. Rochester exhaled slowly and went to retrieve a card lying on a table under a mirror hung up on the wall to Deeandra's left. It separated the den from the kitchen.

"Here you go."

Deeandra got out a plastic evidence bag, and the older man slipped it into there. The back of the card was burnt sienna with a golden border. In the center was a sixteen-pointed star surrounded by white and red roses. It was from the same deck, and Deeandra flipped the bag over in her hands.

Eight of Swords.

"Thank you." Deeandra put the card into the outer pocket of her messenger bag. "I'm going to do everything I can to put this guy behind bars. I promise you that."

Another spark of hope, but milder this time. Mr. Rochester had heard those words before, but he still needed to hope they would be true this time.

His voice was no more than a breath. "I pray you do."

There were still a few hours before Deeandra was to speak with the Bible study leaders. She was now sure none of them had anything to do with this, but she still needed to question them. Before that, though, she was going to visit Annabelle and ask her about the Tarot cards. She could always just look it up, but that could take a few hours. Annabelle, though, had been studying Tarot cards since she was fourteen and used to hold workshops in various cities in Louisiana before moving to Denver.

The one-story house looked like one that would have sent the members of the homeowner's society of Mr. Rochester's neighborhood into simultaneous strokes. The lawn was in need of mowing; there were herbs and flowers artfully placed in gardens all around the house and on either side of the cobblestone path leading to the porch; trinkets hung from windows and around the red door; and in the front yard next to a young maple tree was a concrete bench for Annabelle to sit with a book or a deck of cards. Deeandra smiled as she went up to the porch, habit making her nod of respect to the statue of Our Lady of Guadeloupe.

The breeze played with the homemade chimes, and the doorbell sang a tune from a song Deeandra had forgotten the name of. She couldn't help but smile on the sign with the warm and familiar greeting: _Merry Meet and Welcome!_

From inside came a mirthful "Coming!" in a husky voice with barely any trace of a Southern accent.

Answering the door was an older woman with steel-grey hair pulled back into a braid, and the lines in her oval, copper-toned face deepened as she smiled wide, hazel-brown eyes sparkling. She was an inch taller than Deeandra and was wearing jeans and a blush-colored top with long, split sleeves. Bangles jingled on her thin arms, and the golden chain around her neck held many charms collected over the years.

"Dee-Dee! Come in, come in!"

"Hey, Maman." Deeandra smiled as she came into the house and gave Annabelle a hug. "I need your expertise."

The sixty-year-old woman gave a gravelly chuckle, leading her daughter into the cluttered living room. There were overcrowded bookcases around the walls, one even partly-blocking the window that looked out to the front yard, and most visitors would have to turn sideways to squeeze through the doorway that led into the hallway. Near the largest section—divination—was a table where Annabelle had some of her Tarot decks and a few "cheat sheets" for some spreads.

Sitting at one of the two chairs, Annabelle took her favorite deck out of its silver-painted wooden box. The inside had velvet lining, and the cards were somewhat stained and torn, a gift to Annabelle from her father more than thirty years ago. As she began to carefully shuffle them, Deeandra sat down across from her and took the evidence bag out from her messenger bag.

Allowing Annabelle to look the card over, Deeandra inquired, "You know which deck it's from?"

After a few moments, the old woman gave a nod. "It's from the Lost Goddess deck. It's based off a deck that's centered around Mary Magdalene." She set the card down in front of her daughter and folded her slim, wrinkled hands. "What does this have to do with your case?"

Slipping the card back into her messenger bag, Deeandra responded, "I think the killer's either leaving them in the house—both were being used as book marks—or he gives the card to someone beforehand."

"Like a calling card." Annabelle nodded, deep-set eyes shimmering in thought.

"Yeah. Both books a card was found in belonged to the wives. I'm thinking they went to a reader. Either the reader is the killer, or someone who works there or is a regular is."

"Luckily, this is Denver and not New Orleans, so there aren't _as_ many possibilities."

Deeandra nodded, unable to stop a smile. Annabelle was originally from New Orleans and always had many stories from her life there. She also preferred to keep her mind towards the brighter side of things, feeling no need to dwell on the darkness of the cloud when its rain would bring nourishment and life for the earth. She was one of the sweetest women Deeandra had ever met, and she had a good sense of humor as well as a big heart. Annabelle had welcomed the younger woman in with open arms when she had married her son, and they had comforted each other after his passing.

"Do you know of places here that would sell this deck?" asked the detective. She watched as Annabelle shuffled her cards some more before laying them down in a Celtic cross spread.

Although paganism (or neo-pagan) had begun to gain more recognition and acceptance over the years, there were still some paths people were either wary of or didn't like to acknowledge as an actual religion. The paths that combined traditions from both Christianity and one or more pagan traditions got criticism from pagans and Christians alike. Usually one would have to go onto the internet to get items linked to that religion, but Deeandra was hoping this deck was store-bought. It'd be easier to pin someone down. As few places there were that offered card readings, even fewer sold cards such as these.

"The religious bookstore on Eighteenth might," answered Annabelle after some thought. "One of those Prophecy Cafés might carry them as well, even though most of their decks tend to be more 'secular'."

"Thanks, Maman. This'll really help." Deeandra smiled, looking at the cards. Emerson had tried teaching her, but she'd never been all that interested in learning. Still, she knew what some cards meant, and she could see one that represented new partnership, one for a gift, and one for keeping faith.

"Of course." She looked up and smirked, eye twinkling. "And before you go…"

Deeandra froze, barely an inch off of the chair.

"Tell me about this new partner. Is he nice? Smart? Handsome?" The teasing glint grew in intensity as Deeandra's cheeks began to heat up.

Exhaling sharply, the twenty-seven-year-old got to her feet. "Thank you for your help, Maman. Are we still going to celebrate Beltaine this year in your backyard?"

Annabelle began to put her cards back into the box. "Well, since Beltaine celebrates fertility, I think—"

"Maman!" Honestly, she was _seriously _trying to get her to get with another man? When Deeandra's last husband had been her _son_? Then again, Annabelle always admitted to having never fallen under the description of "normal".

"Well, I'm not suggesting you _sleep_ with him! Beltaine's just over a month away, and you need to get to know him first—"

"Maman!"

Going over to stand next to her daughter, Annabelle placed a hand on her shoulder. "Emerson would want you to be happy. Not everyone needs a companion for happiness, but I can tell you haven't been very happy. Not as much without someone to be there with you, sharing your lives and souls. The cards say this man can probably do that."

Deeandra faced her and raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "And how do you know my partner's even a man?"

"Well, you haven't disputed that assumption, and if I'd been unknowingly speaking of a woman, you'd be laughing, not blushing."

Looking away, Deeandra muttered, "Having a psychic mother can be annoying sometimes." She jumped slightly at the slap to her shoulder. "Ow! Dammit, I thought old age strengthened the mind, not the muscles."

"It depends on the person. Now, think over what I said and go find this killer."

The two shared a hug as Deeandra assured her she would. "Thanks."

"Of course. Bright blessings, _mon fille_."

"Bright blessings, Maman."

**xxx**

Not long after talking to the Bible group leaders, Deeandra got the call she'd been dreading: the Fallen Angel had struck again. At the taped-off property, people were crowding around as usual, trying to figure out what was going on. The frantic whispers and accusing mutters assaulted Deeandra's ears as she flashed her badge to get through the crowd, trying to ignore reporters. She only stared ahead, nodding in thanks as an officer lifted the tape so she could get under and meet up with Heglin.

"Anything new?"

"Johansen found a hair near the woman's body. Brown, so it doesn't belong to our vics or their daughter. It might belong to a neighbor or friend, but we're still going to check."

"Names?"

"Henri and Chloé Moreau. They have a thirteen-year-old daughter, Élodie, who had been staying at a friend's. She discovered the bodies when she came back home an hour ago."

"That poor girl." Deeandra turned her head to see an officer speaking with a tall girl with short, white-blonde hair and charcoal-colored eyes that were puffy. Tear trails marked her flushed cheeks, and she wore a blank expression that showed she had long come out of the shock and was still dealing with the tumult of emotions that would leave her emotionally drained and physically exhausted for days or possibly weeks or months. The detective looked back ahead as she followed Heglin into the one-story home. "She shouldn't have to go through this. No one should."

Heglin gave a nod, eyes becoming distant before he snapped back into reality. He did that often, getting lost in his thoughts before forcing himself to think about what was going around him at that moment. He had always been reticent, and everyone knew not to ask about anything personal. Heglin wouldn't talk, especially when it came to a friend he had lost six years ago. That was probably why he and Deeandra were able to get along: Both had lost a loved one to murder, and neither liked to say anything on the subject.

Taking a left, the two entered the den, and Deeandra had to cover her mouth and look away for a moment before she could be sure her lunch would stay where it was supposed to. She swallowed and turned back, chin quivering slightly as she took in the image of Mrs. Moreau nailed to a large cross set up onto the far wall, next to the fireplace. Her head was drooped forward to the right side, grey eyes open and glassed over, and lips parted in a final gasp that had done nothing to help her.

She'd been stripped down to her bra and underwear, clothes tossed into the fireplace. Flaxen hair fell around her pale face, and on her head was a crown crafted from thorn branches. A stab wound marked her left side, and nails that looked like they should have been used for railway work had been driven into her palms and feet. Her lips were shiny, and it looked like liquid had poured out of her mouth, over her chin, and onto her body and the floor.

"Vinegar, I think," Heglin said when he noticed Deeandra looking at the puddle on the hardwood floor. "Diddlebock got a sample to be tested to make sure, but it fits with the theme."

The homicide detective nodded and went over to Calloway, who was taking the victim's liver temperature. "She died around midnight, and I'm sure she was killed with the same toxin as the others, but I can't be sure until tox sends a report. However, judging by the wounds, it seems this to be the case. There's minimal bleeding, so she died before being nailed to the cross, and the vinegar was possibly poured into her mouth while she was convulsing, which would have suffocated her. If that's what happened, though, then I should be able to find some vinegar in her lungs."

Deeandra nodded and went over to the master bedroom. There was no doubt this was the Fallen Angel and not Beelzebub. The husband had been positioned to look like he was kneeling at the side of the king-sized bed in prayer, wire and poles used to keep him in place. The floor was littered with strands and locks of white-blonde hair, some locks still attached to pieces of flesh. There were patches in the man's head, and his mouth was open due to his lips cut off and tossed to the side, eyes—one was light blue while the other was so dark, it looked almost black—hooded and dull, the pain gone with his spirit. Bone stuck out through the skin in his right forearm and left hand, the way his right upper arm was bent suggested his humerus had been snapped in two, and one of his hips—Mr. Moreau wore only boxers—looked like it had completely shattered.

There was a deep slash through the man's trachea that had put him out of his misery, and Deeandra had to swallow again before walking around to view his back. It had been wiped mostly clean so that the wings could be seen more easily, carved with a small blade with slow and careful lines that would have been elegant with any medium besides flesh. The wings curved up from his shoulder blades before descending down to his lower back before coming back up, the individual feathers drawn almost expertly. Deeandra had already guessed that the Fallen Angel had possibly been an art student. At one of the places where Deeandra wanted to check, would there be a work of art done by the killer?

On the side of the room opposite of where Mr. Moreau had been placed was a short bookcase, pictures on the top of it. Deeandra headed over there and saw a sliver of gold poking out of a paperback copy of _The Da Vinci Code _by Dan Brown. She pulled out the book and flipped it open to find the Tarot card: The Tower.

Jaw set, Deeandra took a glove from Heglin and used it to pick up the card and put it into an evidence bag. "I'm going to make sure I catch this guy," she murmured, looking up when she noticed Heglin watching her. "I'm not letting a fourth family go through this."

_**I hope y'all enjoyed the chapter! :3**_


	17. Proof

**Chapter 17: Proof  
Thursday, 31 March 2039 – Spencer**

"_There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." - Arthur Conan Doyle_

Sitting on the other side of the bullet-resistant glass was the PI Paul Walsh had hired to find out what had happened to his daughter-in-law when it had become apparent that the police would be shoving an innocent man behind bars. The PI was pretty young—not yet thirty—but she was good at what she did and was a friend of the family. Her orange-red hair was pulled back into a French braid today, only a few of the shorter corkscrew curls falling on the sides of her freckled face or over her small forehead. Her mouth was a straight line, but the corners began to come up as Spencer took up the phone, the woman following suit.

Her green eyes only had the barest of shimmers, making her look troubled more than anything. "Stupid question, but social convention demands it: Are you alright?"

Spencer chuckled as he rubbed his chin. He had shaved that morning, but his hair was still a bit longer than he used to wear it, covering a large fraction of his ears. "As much as can be expected. I've been keeping my head down as always, but it's hard to look unthreatening without looking like you could become someone's bitch."

The woman of twenty-seven years bit her bottom lip for a moment, brow furrowed. "I'm so sorry you're still in here. This guy was very careful."

"Girl," Spencer reminded, heart feeling like a hand of iron that had been dunked in liquid nitrogen was slowly squeezing his heart. He flinched and then shuttered, trying to swallow. It was a moment before he could speak again, voice softer and eyes now on the short ledge he rested his right forearm on. "I know it's her. I just know it, but I don't know how we can prove it."

"_I_ will find proof," Meghan whispered, deep-set eyes darkening with determination. "You focus on making it through each day. I know it's been years, but I'm going to find something. I _know_ I will."

_Spencer hadn't wanted to leave the house, not with his wife in such turmoil. He had been ready to tell Mr. Coleridge to just screw himself when Teddy told him to go. She had forced a smile on her face that looked displaced with her reddened eyes and tear trails. She had been insistent, though, saying she needed the alone time. Her voice had quivered as she said it, Cocoa jumping onto the couch and placing her head onto the blonde's lap. After another moment of hesitation, Spencer had agreed to go to the office for a few hours._

_He should have stayed._

_Clutching the frame of the archway leading into the den, Spencer just knew that his legs were going to give out at any second, but he didn't care. He likely wouldn't even notice. The only thing he was capable of doing was staying in that spot, deaf to all but his heart's heavy, speeding beats roaring through his ears. Oxygen barely made it into his lungs, carbon dioxide expelled in short gasps before another miniscule amount of air was choked back down. His arms shook as they tried to hold up his weight, chin quivering and slate-colored eyes as wide as they could go._

_Only one coherent thought was able to form:_ Dear God, no….

_There, in the center of the room was his wife, the sight of her like that making it feel as if Spencer's very soul was shattering, never to become whole again._

_Teddy's battered corpse was bound to one of the chairs taken from the dining room table by wire, her head was bent far back, throat slashed and neck and collar bone covered in now-dry blood. There was another deep gash below her exposed stomach, the woman only wearing a bra and shorts. Several locks of honey-blonde hair littered the hardwood floor around the chair, some of the locks still attached to chunks of skin. Her arms and legs looked deformed, like the bones were barely in place anymore. Some bits of bone stuck out of her shins and forearms, and Teddy's fingers had been nailed to the arms of the chair at the knuckles. Five of her fingernails had been yanked off, and burn marks could be seen on skin not covered in blood. Finally, carved into Teddy's skin just below her breasts was one word:_ Bitch.

_Spencer's throat burned, and he doubled over and vomited before he even realized what was happening. The motion made him stumble and fall right into the steaming puddle, but he barely acknowledged it. His arms shook as he tried to push himself up, tears streaking down his face and mixing with the puke. He heaved again, adding to the pile until his stomach no longer had anything to reject._

_He should never have left her alone._

Running around the track in the recess area, Spencer wanted to believe that Meghan would find something to, not just prove his innocence, but to bring Teddy justice. Only, with the obvious torture the woman had been mercilessly forced through, he wasn't sure if Justice could offer up anything for it. That was probably why she was blind. She gouged out her own eyes to escape the horrors humanity had created. The one that did that to Teddy… _She_ deserved the exact same treatment.

They said an eye for an eye made the whole world blind, but as far as Spencer was concerned, it was already there.

Jogging along the path, Spencer kept to himself. Most of the inmates ignored him. He'd been moved to a different cell block when this one guy threw him half-way across the cafeteria before trying to beat him into a pulp. Apparently, it was one thing for a man to kill his wife for trying to leave him. It was a whole other thing for him to torture her for what the forensic scientists had estimated to have been up to an hour.

Not long after he'd discovered his wife's body, the door had been kicked open by an officer, Spencer immediately put in handcuffs as he stared at Teddy, praying—_pleading_—for God to rewind time and allow her to become alive again. He'd barely heard one of the officers read him his Miranda rights, only snapping back to reality as they tore him away from the scene.

A penknife with the blade holding traces of Teddy's blood had been found in the garbage can in the garage. It, along with a larger knife had been wrapped in Teddy's cardigan and blouse. There had also been latex gloves, and on the tip of the larger knife's finger guard had been a bit of blood—Spencer's.

An anonymous call had been placed, stating that screams could be heard coming from the Walsh home. Meghan had been unsuccessful in tracking the phone. It had turned out to be a cell phone, likely a disposable that had been tossed right after the phone call had been made.

The object that had been used to hit Teddy repeatedly had never been found, but Spencer was sure that it had been a baseball bat.

Ashes had been found in the fireplace, wood recently burnt and a poker positioned to where the point would have been right in the flames, heating up so that the killer could burn Teddy's skin.

Fibers had been found in Teddy's teeth. She'd been gagged at some point to muffle her screams and cried.

A drug had been found in her blood. A heavy-duty painkiller.

Pity from the murderer? Possibly even remorse?

_Bile inched up Spencer's throat as the pictures were slapped down onto the metal table in front of him. _Oh, God, PJ…

_He forced himself to swallow the hot, bitter fluid as he stared down at the photos._

"_Gruesome, isn't it?" the homicide detective asked, his dark brown bangs falling over his grey-blue eyes. "Not as much as his sister, but still gruesome. Inhuman."_

_Inhuman…_

_Spencer wanted to believe that no human was capable of this horror, but history seemed to say that humans were more capable of such acts than even demons._

_The pictures showed PJ strapped to a chair in the center of a room just as Teddy had been, secured by wire and head bent back farther than it should be able. A deep gash had made the blond man's neck split open, going so deep, a close-up photo showed that a bit of his spine was visible when looked at close enough. Also like with Teddy, nails had been driven into his fingers at the knuckles. Thicker nails had been driven into his wrists, and two of his fingernails were missing, dried blood marking where they had been before being ripped off._

_PJ was dressed only in boxers, and his shins had been broken, bones threatening to break through skin, and his kneecaps had been shattered along with one shoulder. Carved crudely into his chest was one word: _Damned_._

"_Oh, God…," murmured Spencer, hand shaking as he pushed the photo away._

_The detective leaned back in his chair, expression neutral. "I don't think even He'll be willing to help you now."_

Under his pillow, Spencer kept a journal his mother had given him. After six years, he was on his seventh journal. All he did with his free time was writing or reading. He had probably read over half of the books in the prison library by now, and he was always forcing himself back to the past, trying to figure out what had happened. He'd written down what Teddy had told him about her, PJ, Ivy, Amy, and Bob. He'd written down everything that had been found and what Meghan had been digging up.

Why?

Why?

Why?

He could ask himself that question a million times and not be able to think of an answer that would satisfy him. He _had_ asked himself that question around that many of times, he reckoned, and while he could think of motive, it just didn't satisfy him.

It was because he was trying to make it rational. Murder was not rational. Torture was not rational. There was no logic, only hate.

Anger.

Resentment.

Those emotions had no logic. Most emotions didn't. Still, Spencer just could not fathom the amount of hate, anger, and resentment that would cause a person to torture another. It was beyond his realm of understanding, and he had to wonder if even _she_ understood it.

Turning to the inside of the journal's front cover, Spencer gazed at his latest attempt at drawing the card Meghan had found in Teddy's copy of _Conversations with God_ _Book 1 _by Neale Donald Walsch: Six of Cups. Spencer then turned to the back to his drawing of the card found in PJ's Bible: Six of Swords.

These cards had enormous significance, Spencer was sure, and tears stung his eyes as he kept flipping back from one drawing to the other and back.

"Charlie…," he whispered, the name still making him feel as if it were acid on his tongue. "I know you did it. I _know_, but how do I prove it?"

Spencer couldn't dare think that girl—no, woman now—capable of such an act, but something in his gut had screamed it him that she did it. He didn't want to believe it. He could still see that baby struggling to stand up by herself. He still saw that toddler dragging a black marker across the walls and crying for her crib to be put back into her room. He still saw that eleven-year-old girl squinting at him when she was on her way to Sunday school, the tiniest spark of recognition lighting up her grey-green-blue eyes. That innocent little girl wasn't capable of murder.

But the woman she had grown into somehow was.

There just wasn't any _proof_.

Sliding the journal back under his pillow, Spencer exhaled sharply. He could still remember her voice from that time she went to his church so many years ago. She'd been sauntering down a hallway, voice low as she said the rhyme, looking for the others, with whom she'd been playing hide-and-seek. Spencer remembered seeing that flash of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail as he made his way to his Bible study class, hearing her whispered words:

"… _forty whacks.  
When she saw what she had done,  
She gave her father forty-one."_

He'd recalled the rhyme, knowing it spoke of a double-murder in the 1800s, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time. So many children's songs and nursery rhymes tended to be macabre. Thinking about it now, though, Spencer had to wonder just how long Charlie had known who had _really_ been responsible for Amy's and Bob's deaths. When exactly had she figured out Teddy and PJ had been behind it? Was Ivy in danger as well? Emmett?

Would anyone else have to die at her hand?

**_So how many of y'all were right about who killed Teddy and PJ? It's probably not much of a surprise by now, but I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter!_**


	18. Hummingbird Spirit

**Chapter 18: Hummingbird Spirit  
Saturday, 2 April 2039 – Gabe**

"_Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it." – Helen Keller_

Jo just stared at him. Her fringe bangs brushed along her short lashes, part of her newly-cut hair barely brushing her shoulders. It was cut in a graduated style, sloping up until the back was cut just below where her head connected with her neck. She'd gotten it cut just a couple of days ago, needing a change. Something as simple as a haircut could do wonders with initiating that change; hair had always been used as symbolism for status and even freedom throughout the years, and even now people had certain perceptions of a person by how the hair was worn. With Jo, she seemed freer, independent, practical, and in possession of a fierce beauty few would be able to handle.

The woman's life was going to begin anew; she was going to give Leanne her two weeks' notice on Monday. Using money he'd been saving for a used car, Gabe had gotten her canvases and various paints as well as inks and special paper for charcoal, watercolor, and chalk. He'd gotten her vine charcoal and a few boxes of pastels, both oil and chalk. She had been wary of starting up art again, but Gabe had given her a hard-backed journal, remembering how she had hated spiral-bounds in elementary school, due to the fact the metal rings would always getting torn up in her backpack. This preference had not changed in all these years, and the thick book was already nearly filled with various sketches of random objects.

Now there was even a canvas leaning against the wall to Gabe's right. It was the largest canvas he had given Jo—thirty-six by forty-eight inches. Swirls of dark colors made up half of the background, the colors smeared using a palette knife and Jo's hands. They swirled inward and clashed with bright colors, the two blending awkwardly in some places and almost perfectly in others where the two halves met, and bits of white and pale yellow had been slashed haphazardly in the dark portion while curving lines of various thickness of black and dark blue was lost in the brightness of enemy territory.

Near the canvas were papers where Jo had been working on other parts of the painting in watercolor, pen, graphite, and ink-and-water wash. There were also various magazines and old photos that would be used to create the collages.

Looking into the artist's eyes, Gabe had a feeling what it was she was going to say.

"I've been saying this about and to you since fourth grade, but apparently it still hasn't sunk in: You're an _idiot_."

Yep, he'd been right, and he gave a nod before taking another sip of his coffee. The two were sitting opposite of each other at the coffee table, having breakfast together.

Combing his hair back with one hand, Gabe's dark eyes went to his plate of turkey bacon and French toast, the corners of his mouth quirking up before going back down and then up again. He had found her statement quite humorous, reminding him of so many times from years before, but the conversation that had brought the statement about was one that still caused a hollow pang in Gabe's heart. Now that he was helping her rebuild her life, it was time for the favor to be returned. That started with Gabe telling her the story he'd kept secret for nearly two decades.

_I've been hearing you tell me that in my head almost every day I was in jail_, Gabe mused. "For actually killing him or for not saying anything about how my parents died?"

"Both." Jo faltered and picked her fork back up, pushing around what was left of her egg white omelet. "Mostly the second one…." Her eyes lifted up to his, gaze softer this time. "Why? You didn't take the blame—you probably would have been injected if you had—but…"

"Why not turn them in?"

She nodded.

Taking a breath, Gabe's eyes went down to his plate, and he took a bite of his French toast. He tried to focus on the taste, but his mind was still spinning, forcing him to relive that night as he did almost every time he closed his eyes. "I just couldn't." His voice was low, and he spoke slowly, as if not really sure if he could place any sort of logic with his actions. He probably couldn't. Likely, anyone would say that there had been no logic behind anything he'd done. "You know me, never thinking."

He attempted a chuckle, but Jo's expression showed that she was not amused and needed more from him.

Setting his fork down, Gabe sighed. "Teddy was the main reason I didn't say anything, I think. I didn't know anything about the rape until I was in the holding cell. Only her, Mom, and Dad had known, then PJ when she told him. I think Ivy and Emmett had been told later on, but I don't really know. PJ and I had been told Teddy had met up with the wrong guy at a party. Teddy couldn't remember who he was, and she and Mom didn't want the pregnancy to ruin Teddy's future, so she hid it while Mom pretended to be pregnant. She made Teddy give birth in her room. I remember having to get a bowl of warm water and some clean washcloths as well as a large bowl." He shook his head. "I hadn't known that there could be that much blood during childbirth…."

Gabe was quiet for a bit, Jo waiting patiently for him to continue.

"Charlie and Toby were another big reason I didn't say anything. Even though Teddy was still seventeen, she'd be eighteen soon, so I figured she and PJ would have been able to take care of them."

He hesitated again, Jo saying in a low tone, "They still ended up in foster care."

"Yeah." His eyes went back to the canvas. Next to it was the window, open and allowing the breeze to play with the dark blue curtains. "I figured PJ would get a better job so he could get them back eventually, or maybe even Teddy would get a job, but I guess neither of them wanted to put their lives on hold when there might be others taking care of them."

"Stupid-ass question alert: You okay?"

The smile came out looking strained, but that was only because Gabe's mind was caught between two realms: the present and the past. "I guess. I've been getting better." He looked back at Jo, his smile more natural now. "I tell you I visited Diddlebock's grave with my parole officer?"

The woman just blinked, looking confounded on how to react to that.

"See, my parole officer's Episcopalian. He never preached at me or anything—not allowed—but I'd been feeling crummy after prison. I may not have killed my parents, but I _did_ kill Bob Diddlebock." He paused, eyes closing. He took a breath before continuing, voice a little lower. "He had raped my mom…, but that had been thirteen years ago. Since then, he'd gotten a wife, kids… it didn't excuse him from his crime at all, but I've realized… I'd used his crime to take action and try and fix my family. A family that was probably already beyond fixing." He paused. "I can only focus on healing myself, and the best place to start was offering forgiveness and asking God for my own forgiveness."

Silent, Jo seemed to be sitting there, deep in thought. As a rape victim, she likely felt that scum like Brad Culpepper or Bob Diddlebock was better off dead. Gabe could never imagine ever feeling that sort of pain or violation. He could not imagine what could be done that could be seen as true justice. The law had once been "an eye for an eye", but what sort of punishment could fit someone that committed rape? Murder was death of body, rape the death of part of the person's very soul—or so it often felt and many times seemed. Gabe, though not a regular church-goer, considered himself very spiritual. He didn't like the term "born again" but rather "awakened". He could not find it within himself to believe that any part of one's soul could die. It was immortal.

In prison, he'd met a man there for assault with a deadly weapon—"a classic case of the white man winning" some other inmates had said about him. The man's name was Stefan Blackhawk and had only a couple of months left of his sentence when Gabe had been brought in. Stefan's father and grandfather had both been shamans, and Stefan had been practicing shamanism on-and-off and planned to take his shamanic studies more seriously and become an apprentice when he got out. Stefan was one of the few people Gabe thought to be decent in the cell block, and they would talk often until Stefan was released, Gabe always interested to know more about shamanism.

He remembered the tall, dark-haired man getting a peaceful, faraway look in his chocolate-brown eyes as he would speak about Wolf Spirit, Raven, Owl, Snake… He spoke of healings, and one in particular that stuck with Gabe was something called "soul retrieval". When something traumatic happened to a person, sometimes a piece of his or her soul broke away, and there was something shamans or shaman practitioners did where they would basically retrieve that part of the soul, bringing it back to the person so that he or she could fully heal.

Gabe had learned to meditate from Stefan, and he had allowed him to direct a "guided meditation" to meet what Stefan called Gabe's "power animal", which all people retrieved at birth but usually never met due to mainstream society deriding such ideas. Gabe had done the meditation, thinking his power animal might be a bear, a wolf, maybe a lion…

It was a _hummingbird_.

The little guy had seemed to laugh at the human's suddenly-deflated ego, explaining to him that he would help Gabe with learning balance and keeping in touch with both the past and future so he could truly live in the present. Apparently, hummingbirds were also fiercely independent and weren't deterred by any predators and had even been known to chase away eagles. This information had made Gabe proud, and even after Stefan had been let out of prison, Gabe had still continued in his meditations, creating a relationship with his power animal and other spirit guides that would help him. He didn't always find time to meditate every day (especially with his new job), but he'd always try to schedule in time for it, and he was now very glad he had.

Looking into Jo's eyes, he saw that a part of her was missing, yearning to come back but too scared to do so.

"Jo?"

At his soft intonation, the ailing woman was snapped out of whatever torture chamber that memory forced her through over and over. Her new hairstyle and quitting her job may be signs of her taking back the reigns of her life, but judging from that look, she was still far from healing completely.

Her hand swiped at one eye, trying to get rid of the forming tear before Gabe could see it. "What is it, stupid?"

"A friend of mine taught me a healing technique. It's a little 'New Age-ie'"—he used air quotes—"as others usually called it, but I think it could work. If anything, it can't _hurt_, right?"

Mouth opening a fraction, Jo looked ready to do as most would: Scoff and say that something like taking some "deep, cleansing breaths" while in a lotus position or laying on a mat while some guy chanted over them, waving around a smoldering bundle of herbs and spread the smoke with a feather couldn't do squat. Before even a sound could escape, however, she stopped herself, eyes getting that distant look as she thought this over for a few moments.

Finally, she just sighed, shoulders slumped. "As long as you don't plan of doping me up with pot or shrooms, why not?"

Gabe just chuckled. "Don't worry, I wasn't planning on that. I'd rather keep _away_ from jail. All I need you to do is to keep an open mind."

On the floor, between the table and the window, Gabe had Jo lay down on her back, and he sat on her side so that the window was behind him, hands on her arm so that they would have a physical connection. He closed his eyes and called for Hummingbird to come to him, the small bird with green, white, and silver feathers appearing, wings no more than a blur. The tiny bird had its head up, showing off the ruby feathers along its throat, and he led Gabe into a psychic plane to fine Jo's soul piece. He made sure to notice the path he took, soon coming upon a young girl no more than twelve years of age. She was in a dress, the top black with long sleeves and the skirt red-violet. Her ash brown hair was styled in loose spirals that fell around her narrow shoulders, and she turned around as Gabe approached.

"What do you want, stupid?" Her voice did not have the fire it once had, eyes shiny and looking like she could start crying at any moment.

Gabe gingerly reached out a hand. "To bring you back home."

Those sad, light brown eyes went to the ground. "I can't… He… He might come back."

Those words were like a cold, skeletal hand clenching Gabe's heart. Only the sound of his power animal's wings humming next to his ear was there to keep his mind where it needed to be. "That memory will only hurt you even more if you stay here."

Young Jo nodded, and her eyes then went up to meet Gabe's. "Will you stay with me? If I go?"

There was no hesitation in his answer. "Of course."

The girl then nodded, this time with more confidence, her lips turning up in a small smile as she took a step towards Gabe, who held out both hands, cupping them. The little girl became a bright light with deep and clear reds, orange-yellow, and streaks of gold. It almost looked as if Gabe were holding fire, and there was no question that this was a piece of Jo's soul. Smiling, he made his way back to the physical plane, eyes opening after he gave thanks to Hummingbird for his guidance. In the room of Jo's apartment, his hands were now cupped just above Jo's arm, and he could still faintly see the part of her soul he held. He bent down to blow some of it into Jo's crown, followed by blowing the rest into her heart.

"Okay," he whispered, gently pulling her up into a sitting position. "Open your eyes."

She did as told, a spark lighting up her left eye, making Gabe smile wider.

"Welcome back." He watched as she blinked for a moment. "How do you feel?"

Suddenly, Jo got to her feet, pushing Gabe aside. "Out of my way, stupid. I need to finish my painting!"

Laughing, Gabe sat back and watched the woman he loved buzz about, getting the supplies she needed for the large canvas leaning up against the wall. Yep, Jo was definitely back, and her very presence would be what helped Gabe finally heal from his own wounds. Forgiveness may have been the first step, but only love would make his heart whole once more. As he watched Jo work, he knew that he was healing already, and the words from something he'd read in the prison library came back to his mind: _All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well._

Gabe agreed fully. It would not be instantaneous, but he had learned to develop patience. He was more than willing to wait for all to become well, but he would not do so from the sidelines. To make sure all became well, he would need to act, helping in what ways he could to make sure this outcome came to be. That was all anyone could do, but because not everyone did, the others had to work harder.

_And I'll work as hard as I have to_, Gabe decided.

_**We see Jo's vocab hasn't changed too much from 5th grade. X3 Also, the quote Gabe remembers from a book is by Julian of Norwich, an anchoress from England that is regarded as a very important Christian mystic. Anyway, I hope y'all are enjoying the story and liked the chapter. :)**_


	19. Redemption

**Chapter 19: Redemption  
Saturday, 2 April 2033 – Charlotte**

"_I live in sin, to kill myself I live; no longer my life my own, but sin's; my good is given to me by heaven, my evil by myself, by my free will, of which I am deprived." - Michelangelo_

Breathing deeply, Charlotte focused on washing the dishes. She counted each circle she made with the sponge, dunking them into the clear water after reaching fifty. Mason was upstairs working on a new painting while Toby and Anya were out, enjoying one-another's company. Anya had been bringing up that infernal holiday up pretty often lately, probably due to the fact that it was only eight days away. It was a holiday that changed dates every year and celebrated a Christian god rising from the dead, the celebrations (which have evolved over the centuries) peppered with pagan traditions that had been put in place so the Church could earn more converts.

Charlotte didn't see much point. She'd gone to church when living with the Rowans and the Taylors. Easter had been one of two holidays where the sanctuary was packed, many people having to either sit in the aisles or stand along the back walls. What, going to church on a major holiday made them better Christians? They might as well have stayed home, Charlie had always thought. Church made one Christian as much as a garage made one a mechanic.

Moving on from plates to bowls, Charlotte just stared at the suds she created by squeezing the yellow sponge against the white bowl that had been crafted into a slight square shape with rounded corners, making them match the plates. Her thoughts showed themselves within the bubbles, reminding her of how she'd gone from church to church, synagogue to synagogue, mosque to mosque, temple to temple… She'd read many books about the history of various religions, personal stories of people within different religions… Her shelves upstairs were filled with religious texts, nothing ever making her feel fulfilled as she had heard religion was supposed to do.

Once, she'd decided to take one foster father's advice and just renounce religion altogether, but that had left her feeling even more empty than before. She just _knew_ that there was more than just the physical, but she just couldn't decide who was right. There could only be one truth, right? So then which was it? Or did everyone have a small piece of the truth but were too haughty to come together to put the pieces together?

Charlotte didn't know and took another deep breath. She couldn't dwell on such thoughts for too long; otherwise, her headaches would become aggravated and the whispering would grow in volume.

Yet, thoughts of religion and spirituality kept _those_ thoughts from resurfacing, and Charlotte flinched as her mind slipped onto that horrendous track.

"_Mommy! Daddy!"_

She couldn't remember.

"_Wake up!"_

She couldn't remember.

"_Mommy! Wake up! Wake _up_!"_

She couldn't remember.

"_Daddy! _Daddy_! DADDY!"_

She couldn't remember.

_An inhuman, high-pitched wail with even higher-pitched shrieks and cries making it a terror-filled duet that shouted up to the heavens, begging for the nightmare to just end._

She couldn't remember.

_The older woman from next door rushing into the house in a robe and nightcap. "Charlie? What—Oh dear Lord!" One of her meaty hands went from her forehead to her breast bone and then from her right shoulder to her left._

"_M-Mommy a-a-and Da-Dad-dy…"_

She couldn't. She just… couldn't.

Swallowing, she moved onto the next bowl. _One, two, three, four, five…_ She kept counting. Fifty circles for plates and forty for bowls. Maybe if she did everything just right, they'd leave her alone. If she did everything right, this nightmare would end, and she'd awaken to find herself three again, jolting up in her small bed with Happy-Happy Horse and Clowny comforting her until her mom arrived to take over. Maybe she'd get warm milk and Mommy would sing her back to sleep.

"_Alouette, gentille Alouette  
Alouette, je te plumerai…"_

"Little skylark," whispered Charlotte as she washed, "gentle little skylark. Little lark, I will pluck your feathers off. I'll pluck the feathers off your head, I'll pluck the feathers off your head. Off your head, off your head…"

"_Please stop…." PJ shuttered in the chair, but the movement only caused more pain, so Charlotte injected a pain killer into his carotid artery._

_The syringe was recapped and then dropped into a waste basket next to the wooden chair taken from the office. PJ was strapped to it with wire that dug into his skin, drawing blood in a few places. His fingers and wrists had been nailed into the arm, but Charlotte hadn't been completely heartless. She'd done it while PJ had been unconscious, and she had just given him two shots of the painkiller within the hour. Yes, she had been very generous. Only, the blond man didn't seem to share that opinion, but that was of no matter._

_Charlotte tilted her head to one side, eyes wide as if remembering the usual pose for guilelessness. "But we haven't finished our game, big brother."_

_Her tone was in mock-innocence, and her eldest brother shuttered, making him wince once more. It'd be another few moments before the oxycontin kicked in. She'd needed to be careful of dosage. She couldn't have her dear brother dying too early, now could she? It just wouldn't be fair._

"_Why…?"_

_Now, how many times had he asked that? Charlotte wasn't sure, but the question bored her now. He damn well _knew_ why she was doing this to him. He had refused to atone for his sins. Charlotte needed to help him with that. Lilith had said so herself, and the woman was very wise. She had to be, having been alive since even before _Eve_ had been created!_

_Squatting on a stool she'd dragged in from the kitchen, Charlotte leaned in so that her gently-sloped nose was merely an inch from PJ's Roman one. "Just answer me, PJ… And I'll…" She shoved the heated metal wedge underneath the man's fingernail (the one on his left ring finger), making him make a sharp sound that sounded like a cross between a gasp and a grunt, "stop."_

"_Charlie… please… I'm your _brother_." Tears of pain streamed down PJ's pale, thin face. His voice shook with shuttering sobs. "Mom and Dad."_

_The woman's eyes flashed, teeth grinding. With her free hand, she stuffed the white washcloth back into PJ's mouth and then hammered in the wedge, going more slowly than she had with the last one. PJ was going to end up in Heaven after this. That was why Charlotte had chosen to kill him on this day of all days, but before he left, he needed to feel the fire the younger woman had helped him escape. He needed to feel the pain, the torture. He needed to atone for his sins. _

_Prayer was weak! Asking for forgiveness from a Being that had detached Himself from His very creation was meaningless! This, here, was _true_ redemption! Charlotte was _helping_ him! _

_He just couldn't see that yet._

The dishes now washed, Charlotte set to work on drying them in opposite order in which she had washed them. First was silverware, then larger spoons and such, followed by glasses…

No matter how clean Charlotte worked to get them, bits of filth would forever stick to their surfaces, just like human souls. How _did_ one get into Heaven, when humans were so corrupted? Was there even sin? There had to be, right? Or was evil just a necessary part of existence to keep everything in balance? The Bible said God was good and that no evil came from Him, but He had created Lucifer, hadn't He? Some may say that Lucifer had simply _chosen_ to rebel, that it hadn't been God but free will, but what was so bad about free will? Also, if God had nothing to do with the creation of evil, then how exactly had Lucifer been able to fall in the first place?

So many questions, none of which Charlotte could usually discuss with others. Few would appreciate her questions and observations.

Pushing those thoughts aside once more, Charlotte began to hum to herself. A few strands that had escaped the ponytail rested against her square-shaped face, the ringlets at the ends of her sand-blonde tresses brushing along her lower back.

Sin existed, she decided. Otherwise, what was there to be saved from?

_Just like with PJ, Charlotte had made sure to nail Teddy's fingers into the arms of the chair while she was still unconscious. She hadn't used larger nails for her wrists, tying wire in the middle of the forearms to connect them to the chair instead. PJ had nearly ripped one arm from the chair despite the pain and drug haze. Things like this tended to be as much about trial-and-error as planning, but it was meticulous planning that would decide the enforcer's fate afterwards. Poor planning meant prison, due to a system that knew nothing of _real_ justice. Of redemption. Salvation._

_The older woman sobbed just as her brother had, and Charlotte tilted her head. Teddy had been brainwashed by this system as well. Oh well. Lilith had warned Charlotte that this would be so. It didn't matter. Teddy still needed to pay before Charlotte could allow her to ascend into Paradise._

"_Teddy Duncan," murmured Charlotte as she stuffed the washcloth further into Teddy's mouth, "took a bat…." She stood, picking up an aluminum bat she'd found in a park—a message from God, Lilith had told her. "And made PJ give Father forty whacks."_

_It sounded like Teddy was gagging on the washcloth with each grunt-yell. She could suffocate, so after a swing hard enough to break Teddy's humerus in two, she pulled out the wash cloth slightly._

_The younger of the two tilted her head again. "And now that I know what she's done…" Charlotte shattered the woman's left knee cap. "I'm going to give her forty-one."_

_After the bone-crushing blows, Charlotte injected the painkiller to offer Teddy a bit of relief. This woman bound to the chair was her sister as well as her mother (for lack of a better term). Before Charlotte had released PJ from the living world, he'd confirmed this. Charlotte had been conceived of three sins: infidelity, rape, and incest. Babies were supposed to be miracles. Charlotte had been a curse._

_Leaning forward, Charlotte placed her hands on Teddy's face, using her thumbs to keep the woman's eyelids from sliding over those warm, brown eyes. Their gazes locked, Teddy trembling as much as her bonds would allow. Charlotte had _his_ eyes. She knew that. It had to be why Teddy hadn't wanted to keep her. She had the eyes of the man that defiled her as well as his title as Father. She had the eyes of the man Teddy had talked her brother into murdering. By gazing into those eyes, Charlotte was forcing Teddy to relive all of those horrid memories, all of those regrets. _

_She smiled at the fear blazing within her older sister's eyes, relishing it. Yes, Teddy would relive everything as a part of her restitution. Only through pain could she be saved._

Once the dishes were done, Charlotte wiped her hands on the dish towel before folding it neatly and placing it next to the sink. She put everything away in its rightful place, barely noticing when Mason stepped into the kitchen. Neroli followed at his heels, plopping down onto the floor when the tall man stopped walking.

"Oh." Charlotte had to look up slightly to meet her ex-husband's dark eyes, which looked larger from behind black, plastic-framed glasses with thick lenses. He'd taken his dark brown-black hair out of the twists he'd kept them in for years, the streaks of chestnut brown and copper more noticeable. "Mason…"

He held up his iPad, which showed a news article about the most recent killing by the Fallen Angel. "You _swore_, Charlie." His full lips were thinner at the moment, mouth a straight line and nostrils flaring slightly. "I told you I'm not covering your ass anymore!"

Mason had been the one to plant the evidence to incriminate Spencer. Charlotte hadn't wanted to see an innocent man go to prison, but if someone hadn't been chosen as the guilty party, the police would have kept searching. Mason had been scared that they'd somehow sniff out a trail leading straight to Charlotte and had decided to intervene. How he'd found out her plans for that day was still a mystery to Charlotte; turns out she hadn't been the only one keeping secrets during their marriage. They should have been perfect for one-another.

Eyes wandering towards the archway leading into the den, Charlotte spotted Brigid, who stopped at the entrance and sat down to observe what was happening. Dreamcatcher sat beside her, but the other two cats stayed on the L-shaped couch as if not wanting to be near their human at the moment. Animals had always been able to sense things in a way humans had long-forgotten or simply dismissed.

"And you no longer need to." Charlotte's eyes slowly moved back to Mason's, voice soft and tone flat. She didn't have to fake emotion around him. "I know what it is I am doing."

_**Yep, Spencer had been correct in his suspicions, but I bet he hadn't known about her helper. How did everyone like the chapter?**_


	20. Crumbling Mountain

**Chapter 20: Crumbling Mountain  
****Sunday, 3 April 2039 – Ivy**

"_Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean." - Aldous Huxley_

Raymond had been quiet all last night. He'd gone right to bed, not even speaking to Ivy or reading a book beforehand like usual. Even now at church, he was silent, his lips rolling inward and eyes taking on an unsure glint whenever his gaze met hers. What was with the sudden third degree? As always, Rachel sat between the two of them, her ballet flat-clad feet swinging several inches above the thin carpet. She was in her favorite burgundy dress with the bohemian-style skirt and translucent bishop-style sleeves. Rachel called it her genie dress, but Ivy was sure it would take more than three wishes to make things okay between her and her husband again.

On Raymond's other side was Josef, who shifted in his seat from time to time, dark eyes betraying a feeling of unease. He still seemed to be struggling, but Ivy and Raymond had decided that this was meant to be something for Josef to discover on his own and that he'd go to his parents when he was ready. Ivy wasn't quite sure if she'd be happy with having her son bringing home a boyfriend one day, but her husband said she probably wouldn't be any less nervous at the thought of him bringing home a girlfriend, which was true. Still, the thought made her a little uneasy. She placed it into God's hands, though, knowing that He would know what to do to guide Josef through life.

It wasn't even Josef's sexuality—oh, Ivy hated the thought of her baby boy possibly ever having a sex life one day—that was a real problem. It was just the fact that it was one more pebble of stress to add to the ever-growing mountain. It was so heavy. Faith was supposed to give people the strength to move mountains, but Ivy didn't want to move it. She wanted it destroyed. Only, she wasn't yet sure what she'd do without it. Her burden had become her safety blanket. The thought of throwing it out for good made her breath catch, her heart pound, her hands shake. She'd spent a large portion of her life with that mountain on her back, forcing her to bow down in humility she'd never once thought to have and keeping her eyes on the ground.

God loved the humble.

The meek would inherit the Earth.

The mountain forced humility and meekness onto Ivy. She'd once been a very proud person. Pride was a sin. She was a better Christian for her mountain. For her burdens.

Wasn't she?

Every little thing felt like another pebble to the mountain. The weight made it so hard for her to do anything else except to concentrate on not letting it crush her completely. Both of her children practically raised themselves, even though Ivy was a stay-home mother. Josef was incredibly independent, only coming to either of his parents with small things—homework or when he was first learning how to do the dishes and his laundry. He'd begun taking care of Rachel when she was three, Ivy never spending more than a few minutes with her a day.

Could Ivy really have been made a better Christian by her mountain if her family was forced to suffer?

Children needed their mothers. Husbands needed their wives. Ivy may have never been the most generous person around, but she had always been able to step up whenever her presence and work was needed. Where was that strong, independent girl that had always worn wild clothes to stand out in the crowd and say, "Yes, I _am_ gorgeous! More gorgeous than those pole-bodied models _any_ day!"?

That girl had died a slow, agonizing death, starting with that damned bat.

No, it'd started with the talks. Ivy had had suspicions that Teddy had been _completely_ serious about what she said she wanted to do, but Ivy had brushed it off. Such a kind-hearted girl that hadn't been able to bring herself to even stomp on a spider couldn't _possibly_ be capable of murder.

But it was proven every day that people were capable of _many_ things.

Thoughts wandering, Ivy barely heard the sermon. It was just about Palm Sunday. Ivy touched the cross pinned over her right breast. It'd been crafted from a blade from a dried palm leaf. It tended to be the same story and same lesson year after year, getting to the point it had become monotonous, even though Ivy wished she could hear the story with renewed fervor each time.

Humility had replaced pride as her new sin. It had turned her into a mouse-woman she had once scorned.

_Dear God, help me,_ she begged. _Please_.

How many times had she asked that? Did He even hear her anymore? Did He even care? Why should He?

The sermon ended with a reminder of the service that would be held in the evening on Good Friday. Ivy shuffled out with her family, watching as Josef took Rachel's hand. The four went to the car in silence, Ivy clutching her leather-bound Bible as she saw Rachel thumb through her illustrated children's Bible her Sunday school teacher had gotten her, imploring the young girl to read a page or two every day. So far, Rachel had only been reading every so often, preferring her fairy tale books and that illustrated children's book on Greek mythology Josef had gotten her for Christmas.

_A gay son and a daughter who might end up converting to paganism… God, exactly what kind of lesson are you giving me? Or do you just not care anymore?_ Ivy demanded in a quivering tone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling.

"Romans eight, verse thirty-seven," said Raymond suddenly, his deep voice slicing through the silence.

Ivy's head whipped around so she could look at him, eyes unblinking as surprise colored her expression. "Huh?"

"Romans eight, verse thirty-seven through thirty nine," he reiterated. "A patient made me read it to her yesterday. You should look at it."

Eyes turning back to the Bible in her lap with the black cover and silver Celtic cross drawn on the front, Ivy hesitated before flipping it open to the correct passage:

_No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord._

After a while with Ivy staring at that passage, Raymond said, "Galatians two, verse twenty."

Ivy turned to it:

_I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me._

Lips moving to the words as if caressing each one, the woman's dark eyes shimmered as hot tears seemed to pierce them like pins that had been held over a flame. She then looked back up at her husband as he slowed the car down to stop as the light changed to red. "Wha—"

"Hebrews nine, verse fourteen."

As Ivy turned to it, she couldn't help but think, _For an Atheist, he sure knows the Bible well._

The verse in Hebrews: _How much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without spot to God, purge your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?_

Josef finally decided to pipe up: "Dad, you sure you're an Atheist?"

Rachel looked up from her Bible, the car lurching back into motion. "What's an Atheist?"

"Oops," murmured Josef, looking out the window as if the scenery had suddenly become mesmerizing.

Sighing, Ivy looked back over that verse in Hebrews. It made her wonder if Raymond had known she'd been feeling such heart-wrenching guilt? For how long? Did he _know_ the main source of her guilt? Was that why he hadn't spoken to her until now? And now on top of all those questions that set her heart apace and mind spinning, Rachel was asking about Atheism, when Ivy and Raymond had decided to put off teaching her about some different religions until she was ten.

Although not Christian, Raymond had agreed to raise the children at church and attend as well to help with providing a united front. He had enjoyed church as a kid, and he felt that it would help instill morals into both Josef and Rachel. Raymond believed that religion did not equate to a person developing a moral compass, but Ivy had always been fairly devout, or, at the very least, never fighting with her parents about getting up early on Sundays.

Ivy was pretty sure she was the main reason Raymond went to church every week and helped get the children get up and ready. He likely thought that they'd be just fine not going, but because it meant so much to his wife, he knew that going would be more helpful than harmful.

"I'll tell you later, Ellie," Raymond replied, tone softer.

"Okay, Daddy!" She went back to reading, feet swinging beneath her.

The car became silent again, Ivy flipping through each of those verses Raymond had told her to read again and again until they finally reached their small, one-story house.

Once inside, Josef and Rachel went into their rooms, and Raymond helped Ivy prepare lunch.

"Why did you never tell me?" he asked as the pot of water was set to boil. His tone was soft, sounding… dejected. Not horrified. Not disgusted. It was like when a child realized his best friend had been keeping a huge secret from him.

At the opposite counter, Ivy gripped the granite's edge, tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn't look at her husband's slender face. She wouldn't be able to bear seeing that expression she knew was there. A look she was sure would make the mountain crush her once and for all.

Or worse, he'd attempt to carry it with her.

"I couldn't…," Ivy whimpered, slowly shaking her head as her chin quivered and vision blurred. "I'm scared, Ray-Ray…"

Large, smooth hands many had commented had been made for the violin or piano slid over Ivy's shoulders. Warmth seeped through the short sleeves of her violet dress where he touched her, and she began to shake with sobs trying to escape.

"Shh….," he whispered into her ear. It sounded like he was he was weeping as well, his breaths jagged and hot drops hitting Ivy's back. "You should have, Ivy. You know I'll be here for you no matter what… It's just…" He faltered. "What…?"

In a tiny whisper, Ivy told him the story, the two standing that way throughout the gruesome tale. She only gave an overview of what happened, not wanting to chance either of her kids overhearing. Due to the threat of the serial killer loose in Denver, Josef and Rachel were to stay in the house, only able to leave with either Ivy or Raymond with them.

Once done, Ivy gulped down a breath. "So often, I think… that I should turn myself in."

"You can't."

Whirling around, Ivy knocked her husband's hands off of her shoulders, her eyes wide in shock as her gaze locked with his. His expression now showed determination. A will to fight and keep fighting.

"You have our kids and me to think of," he told her. "If you turn yourself in now, it'll do a lot of harm and no good. Imagine how hard it would be for Josef and Rachel going to school, other kids taunting them because their mother is…" He couldn't finish and swallowed. "Do you know why I told you to read those verses?"

Head down, Ivy murmured, "They're about love and forgiveness."

Those hands cupping her chin and raising her face so they could look at one-another, Raymond said, "Give it all to God, Ivy. Just let it all go and throw it up to Him. Ask for forgiveness and then forgive _yourself_. And most importantly, act through with it. Maybe we can plan a vacation for the summer, just you, me, and the kids. They've never been to a beach." His full lips curved into a small, gentle smile. "Which do you want? Atlantic or Pacific?"

Composing herself, Ivy inquired, "How are you so ready to accept all of this? And… you don't even believe in God, Ray."

His lips brushed against hers. "I believe in _you_. And that's the closest to believing in God I need."

At those words, the mountain crumbled, and Ivy's eyes closed as the weight quickly lifted off of her, sending her heart into a gallop. She could see the sky again, the stones flying upwards towards Heaven for God to deal with. He had always been taking care of her, she realized, beginning to calm down. She just hadn't been allowing herself to see it or realize the power God had instilled for her to take charge of the life He had blessed her with. She had no idea yet where it was she was meant to go in the maze every person went through on Earth, but she wasn't alone. If both her husband and her Father trusted her to find her way, then she should be able to trust herself as well.

Meekness had never really suited her anyway.

_**-bows- Sorry that it took a while. I have two exams coming up, and I've been working on some stories for a short fiction contest at my school, so I've been putting quite a bit of work into them. I've also started thinking about my costume for Halloween this year (yes, already XD). I dressed up last year, walking around campus as Megurine Luka from Vocaloids. But now I'm thinking of either going as Shion from Higurashi: When They Cry; Blood from Heart no Kuni no Alice; Mey-Rin from Black Butler (if I dress as her, does anyone dare me to attempt her accent throughout the day? lol); or Kyoko from Skip Beat, either as the angel or as Mio. -thinks- As you can tell, I love Halloween. X3 Anyway, I hope everyone liked the chapter. :3 The next one will be a Toby chapter, so I hope y'all will enjoy that as well. I'll try to get it up soon, but I have to work around my schedule.**_


	21. Seventy Times Seven

**Chapter 21: Seventy Times Seven  
Sunday, 3 April 2039 – Toby**

"_To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you." - Lewis B. Smedes_

While Anya waited outside the office with a book, Toby sat with Pastor Skylar Segal, the forty-three-year-old woman sitting behind her desk with her hands folded neatly on its surface and a smile gracing her slender, olive-toned face. She had been speaking with Toby twice a week since the middle of February, the man only going at first to please Anya. Although she had never pressured him into attending services, he went most times anyway to make her happy. He started meeting with the pastor to talk about getting baptized, the woman very patient with him and his lingering doubts. It hadn't been long before Toby was forced to admit to himself that a part of him _wanted_ to be baptized, to attend church, to love God and His Son. A part of him wanted to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit, to know that there was meaning to his existence and something beyond death.

Before now, Toby had only gone to church regularly as a little kid, hating it because he and Charlie had always been separated for Sunday school. His adoptive parents had been Christian but believed church tended to hold dogma over spirituality. They had encouraged Toby to explore, but he'd become disinterested in religion after a while. It had just never seemed important. When anyone had asked, he'd just gone with "I'm agnostic" before changing the subject.

"Have you looked at the verses I mentioned?" the pastor inquired, tucking some of her chestnut-brown hair behind one ear. Small, golden studs shaped like crosses marked her lobes.

Toby nodded, holding onto the hardback Bible Anya had given him last month. "Yeah, but I still don't quite understand how 'divine' any of these passages can be with all the translations and changes the Bible has gone through in the past two-thousand years."

Skylar nodded thoughtfully, toying with the golden band on her left ring finger. "I believe that even with man's changes, God's word and influence still exists greatly within it. Let the verses speak to you. I believe that the Holy Spirit will let you know what it means for you, in your life."

"How am I supposed to know what comes to me is from the Holy Spirit and not just my own imagination?"

"Faith."

Blue eyes on the dark red cover of the Bible, Toby said, "I'd always thought that faith was turning a blind eye to reason."

"Benjamin Franklin," Skylar responded thoughtfully, recognizing the quote. "There are those that would agree, but I've never thought so. Believing in a higher power doesn't make us ignorant to the world around us. Praying to said higher power doesn't make us delusional or set apart from reality. To me, following God isn't 'blind faith'. I see Him in His creations, I feel the Holy Spirit leading me towards Him. There are things science has yet to explain, so turning to God _is_ reason. He _created_ it. That's how I've always seen it, at least."

The two went back and forth about the verses, the pastor mainly allowing Toby to speak and come to his own conclusions. She suggested he keep a journal to write down any thoughts he has about them. She preferred a notebook—it didn't need to be fancy—but a document on a computer could work just as well. The key was just to read, think, and write regularly. It shouldn't have to feel like a chore, but everyone needed responsibility—structure. It created steady places to step for growth, and Toby knew that he desperately needed that. He needed steadiness. He needed growth. He needed to move past those shackles he had placed on himself years ago to keep himself from leaving that cell he'd felt like God, fate, or the universe had just thrown him into, giving up on him.

Before, he'd felt like he should be good for the sake of being good, not because some detached sky god had ordered it, threatening eternal fire if this order was not followed. He'd felt that it was weakness to cling to some belief in a deity when circumstances took a turn for the worse. How was that faith? No Atheists in the fox hole? How did praying as soon as Death had made its presence known make someone an actual believer?

Toby had shunned weakness, but after meeting Anya, having belief in God or any higher being seemed less and less like weakness. It began to seem less and less like flippant superstition society refused to let go of. He had once rolled his eyes and shook his head as Charlie searched and searched for some sort of truth higher than what was just there around them. Toby hadn't seen the point, but now he did. He saw every day how Anya practically glowed with spirit. He saw how caring and generous she was, but it had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with love. He wanted to be able to feel that to the best of his ability. At Charlie's house, he'd read many books on many different types of religions, finally deciding he should try Christianity.

It spoke to him now in a way it hadn't as a child or adolescent. He swore he could feel the Holy Spirit coming over him, entreating entry to fill him with the peace he'd been depriving himself of for so many years.

"There's…" Toby cleared his throat, eyes on his now-open Bible.

He kept reading over that one verse over and over: _"Then Peter came up and said to him, 'Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?' Jesus said to him, 'I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven!'"_

He knew the reason Pastor Segal had chosen this verse. She'd been a close friend to Teddy as well as PJ's girlfriend before moving to New York in 2011. Toby had asked about it once, wanting to hear more about his eldest brother and sister even though he'd been trying to push back any thoughts on them for a long time.

"Yes?" Skylar prompted. She didn't sound condescending or even expectant. She sounded like she had a deep interest in what Toby thought, where he was going in his faith and in his life. She sounded like she wanted to help him but knew that he needed to come to many things on his own.

After a breath, Toby whispered, "How can I forgive him? Why should I even bother?"

The pastor nodded and brought her long hair over one shoulder, the nimble fingers of her left hand playing with one of the dark locks. "The way my own pastor would say it was that it's like a parent with multiple children. The parent doesn't want the children fighting, right? Holding ill feelings for one-another? I believe that to be true, but there's also the fact that hating someone or holding a grudge drains you of energy that could be _much_ better used for other things, things that could help yourself and others. It hurts _you_. My dad always told me that there's no reason to hate a person. What's that going to do, unless you actually act on it? Hate can only hurt the person holding onto it, so why keep it around?"

The smile came easily when Toby thanked Skylar ten or so minutes later before leaving. He found Anya in a chair reading a Ted Dekker book, her green eyes coming up for a moment from what looked to be close to the last page. She held up a finger, saying she needed to find out what happened with Janeal, and Toby smiled at the entranced look on her porcelain face as she read, finally heaving a sigh of mixed emotions when she closed her book and got to her feet.

Usually, the two avoided conversations about religion, Toby never really having been interested and Anya never wanting to sound "preachy". On their way back to Charlie's house, though, Toby finally broached the subject, talking about possibly getting baptized soon. He didn't think it very necessary, but the ritual nevertheless appealed to him. It was called an outward show of what was happening within the soul, and Pastor Segal had made sure to explain that with the actual soul, the cleansing process was continual throughout life. Only Jesus Christ had lived a sinless life, and while His followers tried to emulate Him, it was impossible for them to be completely clean of sin. That was why it was important to keep up with looking through the Bible; it would help keep God in the mind so that the Holy Spirit could encompass the soul and fill him with the peace God wanted for all of His children.

Back at the house, Toby and Anya found Charlie dressed in her usual outfit for her work at Prophecy Café. The parchment-colored blouse showed off her belly button, which she had gotten pierced at the age of nineteen, the charm this time silver and shaped like a scorpion. She was in the living room, facing the oval-shaped mirror as she fixed the small button over her neck, the blouse made with a teardrop-shaped space over Charlie's collar bone. She also had her hair up in a bun, the cap and wig on the coffee table next to Neroli, who was watching as he made small noises meaning he wanted attention.

"How was church?" she inquired as she took out the eye-liner from the bag next to the potted plant on the table under the mirror. "It's good to see that Toby hasn't burned yet."

"Ha-ha," Toby replied dryly as he went over to the couch, Neroli leaping into his lap the second he sat down. He set the Bible off to the side and began to pet the calico, smiling as Amida sprinted into the room as Anya sat down next to him.

"Oof!" Anya grunted as the large cat jumped into her lap, hitting her in the diaphragm as well. The cat snuggled up to her and purred, making Charlie laugh. "Service was wonderful this morning, and during Sunday class before it started, it was funny watching our associate pastor running around the entire church trying to find the grape juice for communion." She giggled and gave in to Amida's wishes, scratching her behind the ears. "Where's Mason?"

"Studio," Charlie answered, smearing her eye shadow with one finger to blend the colors for a smoky look. "The exhibition is in a few weeks, and he needs to get those photographs done as well as finish his sculpture." She put in her dangling earrings and went to put on her wig. "I'll be back tonight. Brigid's out back, and if you don't mind, she'd probably love to go on a walk. I overslept this morning."

"We don't mind," Toby assured, moving some strands of hair away from his face.

Anya nodded in agreement, turning her head away as Amida knocked her head under her chin. "Have a good day, Charlie."

After a moment of hesitation with a blank look on her face, Charlie blinked. She then looked at Anya and smiled, running her hands through the long, layered locks of the dark brown wig. "I'll try. Thank you. You two have a good day as well." She took up her purse from the coffee table and left.

"She's been seeming a little more out of it, lately," Anya stated, absently petting the large orange-and-white cat.

Giving a nod, Toby replied, "She's always been a space case, but it had begun to get worse in high school for a while, I think. I was already living with my adoptive parents, but sometimes when we video chatted or talked on the phone, she'd randomly pause or sometimes not hear something I said, so I'd have to repeat myself. It got better later on, but she still has moments like that once in a while. It's never been a big problem, though." He set Neroli off to the side, making the small cat meow in protest. Toby got to his feet and stretched. "Want to get changed so we can take Brigid for a walk?"

"Sure." Much to Amida's disdain, Anya set her aside and got up, trying to get some of the cat hair off her plaited skirt to no avail.

"Also…" Toby's eyes went towards the mirror, then to his Bible.

"Yeah?" Anya tried to ignore the cat pushing her paws up her calf.

"Can you come with me somewhere?" Toby took a breath, still not completely sure about this decision. "I think… I think it's about time I talk to Gabe."

**_Like Ivy did in the last chapter, Toby's beginning to step forward to finally get past the bonds he'd made for himself. :3 Also like the last chapter, there wasn't any action, but the Fallen Angel storyline picks back up in the next chapter with Deeandra. Also, about Neroli being a male calico: Although calicos are almost always female, they can be male, but it's extremely rare. Anyway, most of you probably don't care, but I'm just throwing that out there in case someone want to say that it's impossible for Neroli to be male and a calico cat. Well, I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, and I'll try to get the next one up soon. I probably would have gotten this one up sooner, but I've been working on this painting for Halloween, which I have just stuck up on the door outside my dorm room. :D I also got side-tracted by that movie Practical Magic... heh-heh... ^-^"""_**


	22. Art

**Chapter 22: Art  
Monday, 4 April 2039 – Deeandra**

"_The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil." - Hannah Arendt_

Much to Kurosawa's distaste, he ended up needing to call the FBI about the Copycat Killer—turns out the DA liked that name, even though Deeandra had mentioned it as a joke—as there was evidence pertaining to him having killed someone in Wichita, Kansas and another in Tulsa, Oklahoma. An agent had been saying that he had a second case from Oklahoma that may have been the Copycat Killer, but Deeandra hadn't stuck around to listen in on the case. She was staying out of it, letting Kurosawa handle the feds. She had her own demon to deal with.

A bio-degradable (nearly everything was bio-degradable now) to-go cup filled with a chai latte in her left hand, the detective looked around at the paintings hanging on the walls of the Prophecy Café in the Cherry Creek North shopping district. Some of the artwork (most either oil or acrylic with some photographs here and there) boasted titles and artist names on cards below them while others remained anonymous. Five of the anonymous paintings looked to be done by the same artist, certain details and themes reoccurring. The one Deeandra gazed at now was all paint (oil or acrylic, she couldn't tell and didn't really care) and sported a winged, nude woman flying up, back bent to hide part of the front of her body and to make it look as if she were about to descend towards the earth. In her hands were balances like what Lady Justice held up in front of the courthouse, but while one plate on each held a feather, the other held a human heart.

The woman's long hair was strategically placed to keep the painting suitable for hanging up in a coffeehouse, and one of her wings was white and resembled a dove's while the other was black and resembled a bat's, the skin torn near the ends, some bone showing. She faced Deeandra, not bothering to watch were she was flying, thin lips twisted in a partial-sneer, through the rest of her face made it look as if she were making some sort of plea. Black horns came out of the top of her head, and two pieces of what looked to have been a golden ring—a halo?—were falling away. Deeandra noticed that with one of the balances, the heart was as low as it could go, whereas with the other, the strings weren't taut, making it look as if it could go either way. Swirls of dark colors and splatter that looked almost like blood made up the background. There were also streaks of silver of varying lengths and widths, but they were in jagged lines that resembled lightning.

"This is one of our most popular pieces right now."

The voice, though soft and overly-calm, made Deeandra jump somewhat, a bit of latte splashing over her hand. She hissed an oath and grabbed the cup with her other hand as the dark-haired woman reached over to an empty, nearby table for a couple of napkins.

"Thank you," Deeandra said as she took the napkins with her free hand and set her cup down onto the table. "You are…?"

"Charlotte Roseveare." She held out her right hand, which the detective took in a firm shake once she'd wiped off the coffee. "Very sorry for startling you. My brother sometimes said I should start wearing a bell around my neck."

She gave a laugh, which sounded almost chime-like.

Deeandra gave a small laugh, taking in the woman with long, glossy brown hair, green-grey-blue eyes, a white blouse that showed off the barbell in her navel, and low-riding jeans that tucked into grey ankle boots. "Who's the artist? I liked some other paintings that looked like they're done by the same person."

She motioned to the four others around the café. One had the same woman but with black hair sitting on the vanity in front of the mirror, face turned to where her reflection seemed to be watching the people along with her, but her reflection's shown eye was red, lips twisted in a demonic smile.

Another was black, a woman with angel wings walking away. She was painted to where she could only be clearly seen from far away, getting fuzzier when one got near the painting. Blood dripped from her hands and wings and stained her white dress.

The third depicted a woman holding up a human skull with one hand. On the top of the skull was a burning, white taper candle, and there was a rose between its teeth, the petals falling to the barren ground. The woman's hair was a dark veil over her face, which was tilted down somewhat, her tresses cascading over her shoulders, ending just above her ankles. She looked to be wearing an extremely short, strapless dress crudely sewn together by leaves. She was covering the skull's eye sockets with her free hand, and around her feet were rotting apple cores, a snake severed in half at her feet. Shadows reached towards her and there were cuffs around her wrists and ankles that resembled shackles, the metal gold and red, resembling fire.

The last showed the same blonde woman from the winged painting, but she was in a long dress and held onto a long, golden chain that was wrapped around her forearm three times, so tight it looked like it had cut off the circulation for a while. The chain led to a roaring lion, teeth stained with blood and red clumps at the bottom of his mane. The woman wore a circlet of wilted flowers and had a tired and haunted look on her face. The mountains in the distance were crumbling, and the forest looked to be on fire. It very much looked like the reverse of the Strength Tarot card.

Charlotte gave a smile as she looked upon the paintings. "The artist wishes to remain—" She stopped upon seeing Deeandra's badge. After swallowing, she took a deep breath and told her, "I don't know his full name. I've only seen him once in passing. He might have left his name or a penname on the loaner's log, but you'd have to ask the manager, Alice Linscott."

That was how most of the Prophecy Cafés got paintings. They invited local artists to loan their work to get their names out there for those that might be interested in buying one or seeing an exhibition. It didn't really make sense that an artist would just loan a painting and keep anonymous, though Deeandra guessed that some may only do art as a hobby and wouldn't be as interested getting their names out there as others.

Deeandra got out her memo pad. "I will, thank you. Do you remember what the artist looks like, though?"

"Black guy, but I think he could have been mixed. I'm not sure. Tall, I'm pretty sure. I didn't get too close of a look, though. As I said, it was in passing. He was dropping off a painting: 'Eight'—Roman numerals—'Weakness'." She pointed towards the 'reversed-Strength' painting. "I was done with my shift and noticed that it resembled the Strength card. I found it odd, seeing as that was the card I had drawn in my daily one-card reading that morning."

"You work here as a reader?"

Charlotte nodded, the corners of her mouth coming up in a small smile. "Tarot cards, oracle cards, rune stones, and tea leaves. Another reader, Laurel, is teaching me coffee-ground reading and how to read fortunes with playing cards."

By the tone of her voice and the glisten in her eyes, it was easy to see the joy and bliss she found in her work here. Most psychic readers were seen as con artists, but this girl seemed like the real deal to Deeandra, though the only other psychic she knew was Annabelle, who never took claim to such a title. It looked like Charlotte wouldn't claim it either.

After a couple of more questions about some of the people that came in for readings, Deeandra took her coffee and went to the front as a woman that looked to be in her mid-forties came out from the back. She had needed to do some paper work and already had a folder in one hand—likely the log Charlotte had mentioned. Turning her head slightly as she walked to the table Mrs. Linscott, Deeandra caught sight of Charlotte slipping out of the café, nodding to a shorter woman, who was dressed in a long, flowing green dress and had her copper hair pulled back into a tight bun. That was likely Laurel, the dark-haired woman going back home. She gave the detective an odd mix of feelings. Her intuition was usually good enough that Emerson had once joked that maybe she had somehow gotten the psychic genes from Annabelle instead of him.

With Charlotte, though, it was hard to pin down anything definitive. There were times where she felt uneasy, but there was also a sense of peace and even a ping in her heart that seemed to have picked the lock of the box she'd been keeping her sorrow and grief pushed down in. There'd been a troubling and secretive aspect to her, but there had also been that sense that she wouldn't have straight-out lied to a direct question. It would have just been the matter of wording the question just right to erase any grey areas so as to get the full truth.

Sitting across from the manager, Deeandra offered a smile and nod. "Thank you for meeting with me, Mrs. Linscott."

"Alice, please," the woman replied, her voice small and somewhat nasally. She had her hair, which bordered on the line between blonde and brown, pulled back into a bun kept in place with a wooden hair stick, some grey roots already beginning to show themselves. "You are very welcome. I can't _stand_ the thought of someone so horrible being anywhere _near_ here, let alone…" She shook her head and pushed the fairly thick, cream-colored file towards Deeandra. "Names of all the artists and the paintings they dropped off. Included are the dates each painting was left with us and when it was either picked back up or sold. If sold, then the price and name of the buyer is also listed. These are from the last three years."

"Thank you, Alice." Deeandra smiled and set the file back down before taking a sip of her coffee. "Also, I was speaking to one of your fortune tellers earlier—Charlotte Roseveare."

The woman nodded, reaching back to hold her bun in place as she repositioned the stick, which had a sun carved at the top of it. It looked like Alice had simply twisted her hair to quickly put it up and keep it out of her oval face. "Peculiar girl… I hired her almost five years ago. At the time, she could only read cards and runes, but she promised that she learned fast. She's one of our bests, right up there with Laurel Chadwick, who's been here since we opened nine years ago next month."

"Do your readers use their real names?"

Alice shook her head, hands now folded neatly on the table's surface in front of her. "Three of them, including Charlotte, go by pseudonyms, and I'm sorry, but I will not give out her real name unless there is a warrant."

Giving a nod, Deeandra assured, "I understand. I'm not accusing her of anything."

She went on to ask about other readers—there were five in all—as well as some baristas or anyone that had been working at the café or had been a regular for three or more years. Alice seemed pretty adamant about her workers being good people, giving information more freely when it came to the regulars. Deeandra made sure to write everything down before shaking Alice's hand and heading home with her file and coffee. She should probably have gone to the station, but there was nothing there she needed at the moment, all of her files and notes in her bag. Plus, she just wanted to avoid the feds.

As always, she let her hair down and set some incense burning before turning towards her work, spreading everything out onto the coffee table. She had some files from the other Prophecy Café in the city as well as a short list of names from that bookstore on Eighteenth. She decided to go through the list she'd gotten from Alice Linscott first, first scanning the titles of the paintings for "VIII Weakness". The artist was listed as T. S. The painting had been dropped off February 14. It was an odd painting to drop off on Valentine's Day, though Deeandra didn't think that that had any real significance—or if it did, only to the artist.

T. S. had loaned nineteen paintings over the past three years, never keeping one up for more than seven months. Deeandra was able to figure that the other four paintings up currently were "Balancing Act", "The Demon Inside", "One Less Star", and "Lilith's Folly". She made highlights and some notes in a Composition book she had recently dedicated to this case to help her keep her thoughts all in order.

As she worked, she barely noticed her phone vibrating. She had to stand to get it out of her jeans pocket, quickly accepting the call when she read the caller ID. It was the station.

"Hardt."

"There's a man here that wishes to speak with you," said a woman that worked at the front desk. "Says he has important information pertaining to your case and will only speak to you."

Mobile between her ear and shoulder, Deeandra began to cram everything back into her messenger bag. "Hold him there. I'll be over soon." She hung up and stuck the phone back into her pocket before clicking her bag shut and hurrying out to her car.

Within ten minutes, she was in the building, fast-walking towards the waiting area as she quickly pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. As she approached a tall man got to his feet. His skin was a dark russet color, and his dark brown eyes were behind black plastic-framed glasses. Tight curls fell over his forehead, and there was a somber look on his face. It was a look drained of hope, of spirit. Deeandra felt a chill walking up to him, motioning for him to follow her to the interrogation room. He followed without giving any outward sign of understanding what was going on or what he was doing.

Another forensics expert was behind the two-way glass with an officer. Apparently, this guy was Heglin's nephew, so he had taken himself off of the case, putting Childe in charge of his team.

Once the two were seated, Deeandra asked for his name.

"Mason," he answered quickly. He then took a breath. "Mason Heglin." He looked up to meet Deeandra's gaze, his eyes blank, sending a chill down her spine. "I'm here to confess to eight counts of murder."

**_Gomenasai! D': I've been distracted by schoolwork, the writing contest at my campus (I'm very anxious to see if one of my stories place... *crosses fingers*), stuff I'm reading, and some personal stuff. Anyway, I hope y'all are still enjoying this story and that this chapter didn't disappoint. :3_**  
**_Also, another distraction has been the infamous plot bunnehs that had begun their attack in... July, I think... and have finally gotten me to get the idea rolling. It's another GLC story (I'd give the title if I'd thought of one already), and it will mainly be suspense, but there will be some horror-ish tones to it as well (but seeing as I scare very easily and likely will be unable to scare anyone but myself, I am loath to call it a "horror"). But it's looking like it will be coming along well, and if you guys are interested, I will likely start posting it after Blind World is completed. :)_**


	23. Forgotten Victims

**Chapter 23: Forgotten Victims  
Monday, 4 April 2039 – Deeandra**

"_I have learned over the years that when one's mind is made up, this diminishes fear." - Rosa Parks_

"Seems a little anticlimactic to me," muttered Diddlebock, dark brown eyes on the floor in thought.

Childe shot him a glare, ice-blue eyes sharp. The look made the scientist straighten his spine, thin lips pressing together tightly. Amelia Childe was a force to be reckoned with, her mind sharp and temperament almost as fierce of Deeandra's. She'd been looked at to become the Under-Sherriff, but she had declined instantly, perfectly fine with her position (though Deeandra knew she wouldn't mind getting moved to day shift).

"He knew details about the case that had never been released to the press," said the tall woman with her pale blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. "He was even able to state exact times and where he had first seen them."

The thirty-six-year-old man nodded and ran a hand through his ebony hair. "It just doesn't feel quite right. Why turn himself in _now_?"

"I agree with Diddlebock," Deeandra announced as Childe opened her mouth. "He said he killed the first family three years ago because they reminded him so much of a family he knew as a child. He said he hadn't planned on killing anyone else until he saw Mrs. Schwartz at the café when he dropped off a painting and something just snapped. I don't buy it."

"We can't hope to be able to understand what goes on in the minds of criminals," Childe argued. "You may have good instincts, but your 'gut' does not have all the answers. He told us where we can find his stash of cicutoxin as well as the items he's been using to extract it from the hemlock roots. We'll look into that, but right now, evidence is pointing to him telling the truth."

"What about the hair we found?" Diddlebock questioned, though it was already sounding like he was agreeing with his superior. There were just a few things that seemed out-of-place, and he wanted to look at those before they move on with saying that Mr. Heglin was, without a doubt, the Fallen Angel. "It was synthetic, obviously part of a wig. It seemed long, likely for a female's disguise."

"He still could have worn it," responded Childe. "He's wiry with a thin face. The right clothes and dark surroundings could make anyone think they're looking at a woman as long as they don't get too close. We have nothing to say he's lying to us about this."

_It still doesn't feel right,_ thought Deeandra, though she knew it would be useless to say this aloud. Mason Heglin was already being transported to a holding cell, and they needed to check his apartment as well as the house he had, more recently, been staying at. They had to search for proof of Mason's story, but there was sharp pain in the detective's stomach at the thought.

"Besides, the DA is going to want to wrap this up as quickly as possible," Childe amended, tone softer this time. Her eyes were on the wall, making Deeandra think she was uneasy about this as well. "Election year is coming up."

"Of _course _it is…"

At the apartment, empty glass vials could be found on the bottom shelf in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and those were taken to be tested at the lab. Even if Mason cleaned these thoroughly, they might be able to pick up something. Also hanging along one of the walls in the bathroom was some hemlock, roots intact.

Two vials filled with cicutoxin were in the back of the refrigerator as Mason had promised. Like the others, the small bottles were made of amber-colored glass, and the lids were screwed on tightly. One of the vials was nearly empty, and Deeandra found the distilling apparatus under the kitchen sink along with a couple of gallons of distilled water. She motioned for them to be collected before she went into the bedroom to retrieve the Tarot card deck as well as a notebook Mason had mentioned.

Back in the interrogation room, Deeandra had asked the weary-looking man about the cards, and he had been able to state which cards he had left and with whom. He claimed his ex-wife had been studying the Tarot since being a preteen, and he had begun studying them as well in high school as a way to try and impress her. He had even proposed to her with a pack of Tarot cards he had made himself, and she still used them. Apparently, they were on very good terms; they simply hadn't been compatible enough to live together—at least, that was what he had claimed.

Again, Mason had been truthful. The drawer in the nightstand on the right side of the bed had a false bottom. There was a rectangular prism-shaped object wrapped in a silk scarf, and next to it was a composition notebook. Deeandra put on her pair of latex gloves and took both out, setting the notebook on the bed as she carefully unwrapped the black cloth. Inside was the Lost Goddess deck, and the cards were still in order. Going through them, Deeandra's heart pounded. Just as the artist had promised, five (not three) cards were missing: X The Wheel of Fortune, XVI The Tower, Six of Cups, Six of Swords, and Eight of Swords.

"Eight_?" Deeandra questioned, incredulous and shocked. It had recently been stated that one of the 'Fallen Angel' kills had actually been by the Copycat Killer. Had this guy not gotten the memo, or…?_

_Mason gave a nod, fire in his eyes. "Before the first family, I had killed two others. The victims' names are Teddy Rachel Walsh and Peter John Duncan. The man currently in jail, Spencer Walsh, is innocent."_

_Blinking, Deeandra had to take a moment to compose herself. She had never imagined… "Why come to us now?"_

_He didn't even hesitate, eyes shimmering. "Same reason I killed: Redemption."_

Mason had had all the answers, yet there had been some things that just didn't add up. Still, Childe had been correct that the DA would want this wrapped up as quickly as possible. With an election year coming up, he would want everyone to know that it had been under him that a dangerous serial killer had been captured and thrown behind bars. Deeandra hated the thought of an innocent man being tossed into prison, but in that time she had interrogated Mason Heglin, "innocent" was not a word to come to mind. She was sure he hadn't been the one to actually take those lives, but with so much information, there was no way he could be completely innocent.

This family Mason had been talking about… He hadn't gone into detail, but Deeandra had to wonder if there was a connection between this family and his ex-wife, a woman he claimed to have been in love with since they were kids. Mason hadn't said too much about her, just that her family had screwed her over in a way no one at the station could ever hope to understand. Apparently, she had been broken by then but refused to do anything, so Mason had taken things into his own hands.

The most important piece of evidence was the notebook. Opening it, Deeandra found large, messy scrawl that she had to work to make sense of. Most of it was in shorthand, and it would have to be looked at by the handwriting analyst. At first glance, though, it looked to be the written ramblings of a madman. Words that stood out to the detective were "damned", "redemption", and "sin". It looked like Deeandra had been correct in her assumption about the religious background, but it was very obvious that it was a great perversion of the Christian faith by what Deeandra had been taught as a young child. Actually, she didn't even see any sort of mention of "God" or "Heaven". There was just "Hell" and "sin". The detective would sooner call him a "Sinist" than a "Christian".

As the items found in the apartment were taken to the lab, Deeandra travelled to Mason's ex-wife's house with Childe. The house was large with a Victorian style, flowers everywhere. All the colors reminded Deeandra of Annabelle's home, but the grass looked as if it had been measured with a ruler, and the colors were as balanced as possible to make the garden look symmetrical and the house magazine-worthy. It looked like everything was taken care of very diligently, and the brunette saw Childe raise an eyebrow as they headed towards the front door.

"She must do well to be able to have such a good landscaper," the blonde murmured.

"Suspect's an artist. Successful and has paintings and photos sold all over the world. I'm guessing he still gives her a portion of his profits even though they're not legally married anymore." Being here made Deeandra's stomach begin to churn. It felt like heated needles were being driven into the organ, and when she tried to swallow, her throat rebelled.

"Probably still hoping she'll invite him back."

"Not happening now."

When Deeandra rang the doorbell, a dog from inside began to bark, two voices rising to order it into silence. It sounded like someone was pulling the dog away, probably into the fenced-in backyard when the door opened, revealing a woman whose face made the homicide detective's breath catch.

"Charlotte Duncan?" she inquired, trying to keep her voice even. She had wondered about the name given back at the station. It had made her think back to the reader at the Prophecy Café, but "Charlotte" was a common name, and the reader had claimed not to know the artist.

_She _has_ to be involved in some way, _thought Deeandra as the woman looked at her. Her hair was now sandy blonde, pulled back into a loose braid. At the café, she'd been a brunette. Instantly, Deeandra thought of that synthetic hair found at one of the crime scenes. It was brown.

"Detective Hardt?" Her voice was soft, surprise swirling within it. That overly-calm tone was gone, actually making her seem more human than before. She turned her eyes towards the forensic scientist, who nodded at her.

"Amelia Childe, CSI."

Deeandra asked, "May we come in? We have some questions."

"Of course." She opened the door. "Detective Hardt, I apologize for not giving you my ex-husband's name when you asked about the artist at the café." Her eyes were on the floor, and her posture showed a woman that had been beaten down by the world at every turn of her life. "He told me to keep it secret, and I knew—"

"What's going on?" a man demanded, cutting Charlotte off. He had similarly-colored hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and there was a harsh look on his clean-shaven, slender face. His hard, bright blue eyes that challenged Childe's for sharpness shot from Deeandra to the scientist and back. "I'm Toby Duncan, her brother. What do you want?"

"Toby," Charlotte whispered, going over to the man and taking his arm. "This is Detective Hardt and Ms. Childe, a forensic scientist. Detective Hardt came by the café today. She was asking about Mason's paintings."

Eyes narrowed, the severity intensified rather than ebbed. "What's going on with Mason?"

His voice was just above a growl. He reminded Deeandra of some people she'd dealt with before, people that had grown up with officers around them or nearby. Many of them had grown to hate "Deeandra's kind". It was a sad fact but a fact nonetheless. There would always be dirty cops besmirching the name of law enforcement in general, just as there would always be people forced into circumstances that would make even the "good ones" seem unreliable at best and incompetent or uncaring at worst.

"What about Mason?" a woman with wine-red hair—Anya Saunders, according to Mason—inquired, walking into the den from what looked to be the kitchen. There was fur all over her sweatpants, the four cats lounging on the couch looking to be the culprits as well as the still-barking dog in the back. "He's not in trouble, is he?"

"I'm afraid he is," Childe responded in a cool tone with only slight concern—compassion wasn't her strong point with anyone but her son. "You may wish to sit down."

Toby had to be taken to the couch by his sister, and Anya watched the two as she picked up a Russian blue to sit in its spot. Charlotte moved a large white-and-orange cat, which protested having its nap interrupted, so that she could sit down with her brother between her and his girlfriend.

Having more tact than the scientist, Deeandra spoke first: "I have been working the Fallen Angel case, which led me to the café, and earlier today, Mason Heglin confessed to all crimes."

"_What_?!" Charlotte sprang to her feet, Toby having to be the one to grasp her arm this time. She began to shake as she breathed through her mouth, eyes wide and on the floor before they rose back up to the two women. "No. No, no, no! There's _no way_—"

"Charlie," Toby whispered, interrupting her. He sat her down and looked at the detective and scientist. "What evidence could there be on him? He's been living here since the day after it was announced there was a serial killer loose in the city. I've known him for _years_." The ire for the two women was gone now, replaced with shock and disbelief. "There's just no way…"

Taking a breath, Deeandra responded, "I'm sorry, but with all the evidence we've gathered, it's looking more and more like—"

"_No_!" Charlotte had to be pulled down by her brother again, the man kneeling down to whisper something in her ear as Anya scooted closer to her, taking one of her hands. Her eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched as her shoulders trembled.

"There has to be some mistake," Anya murmured, eyes pleading as she gazed at Deeandra and Childe.

"I'm afraid it's not." Deeandra hated giving this sort of news just as much if not more so than telling the loved one of a victim what had happened. Loved ones of the killers usually were the forgotten victims. Loved ones of victims got pity. Loved ones of the perpetrators sometimes only got scorn, if anything. "We were just in his apartment, and we found objects we believe to have been used, and he knew details that hadn't been released." She took a deep breath, watching as Toby settled back onto the couch, holding Charlotte as the woman kept holding one of her hands. "Also, he confessed to the murder of two other people."

It looked as if Charlotte was fighting for breath. Toby's jaw was clenched, looking like he couldn't imagine what else there could be, what else the world could drudge up to beat him with as it had his entire life to both him and his sister.

"Teddy Walsh and Peter Duncan," said Childe when Deeandra hesitated.

Charlotte froze, looking like she had no idea how to react, how to think, or what to do. Anya's face showed shock mixed with disbelief and the dimming hope that all of this was simply a mistake. Toby, on the other hand, had a look on his face Deeandra had seen many times and hated to have to see. It was the look of a person that had been living on an earthquake-plagued land for many years and has finally just had the earth crumble away and leaving nowhere for him to stand.

Three more lives ruined by the Fallen Angel, and Deeandra's eyes flickered towards Charlotte as she dry-heaved, trembling again. Would the body count continue to climb?


	24. Family and Love

**Chapter 24: Family and Love  
Tuesday, 5 April 2039 – Gabe**

"_The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather, a condition of it." - Friedrich Nietzsche_

How mayonnaise added to the batter made chocolate cake so good, Gabe wasn't sure, but he had been addicted to Rosaria's cooking ever since he started working at The Lounge. It was his break, and Jo was sitting in front of him at the booth in the back, a book between her plate and the wall. She'd decided to start learning about Judaism, and if she decided that she really wanted to follow this religion and live the life, she would speak to a rabbi about converting. From what Gabe had heard from her, it would be a year-long process (at least) for Reform Judaism, and she seemed to be serious about this. Along with the book on the table, there was another in her purse. Learning about Judaism seemed to be helping her as well as getting back into her art and her old boss telling her she didn't need to work for an extra two weeks and sending her off with her blessings. She was still searching for a new job, and Gabe wanted to help her in any way he could.

Taking a bite of a square of honey dew in her fruit salad, Jo drummed her short fingernails along the book on the table, _Choosing a Jewish Life_ by AnitaDiamant. The receipt from Reviving Literacy was sticking out a quarter-way from the end, used as a bookmark.

"So Toby called you Sunday night?" Jo inquired.

There was hope in her voice, making Gabe smile. She had always placed emphasis on family, likely due to how hers had torn apart. She had been keeping in contact with her dad since the divorce much to her mother's chagrin, and he had been the one to give advice at what to read about to learn more about Judaism and who to talk to. According to Jo, he was very happy she was taking an interest in that path, though he had assured he'd still be happy no matter which religion or philosophy she chose to follow.

Her mother was less than happy about it, but at least the two were finally talking again. Jo had conveyed that it had been very awkward talking to her again at first, but they were slowly getting back into a comfortable pace, though religion was still a topic both preferred not to discuss with one-another. Savanna was not the easiest person to get close to, not even for her own daughter. She was a woman that placed logic before emotion, and she was a very devout woman who had a tendency to think that only her way to God was correct. On the flip-side, however, she was also very intelligent and passionate. She knew exactly where she stood and how to get to where she wanted to go. Even if she did not sway to emotion easily, she had learned to perceive it in others and act in accordance to it rather than just being the marble statue Jo remembered from her childhood.

It was that perception of her that had always made Jo feel as if her mother had never really cared about her at all, which had been very untrue. Still, it was hard to erase those perceptions of her memory, so she had settled for simply starting over, which was what she was probably hoping for Gabe and his brother and sister. Charlie had reached out to him a few times in the past, but since it tended to upset Toby, she hadn't talked to him all that much.

"Yeah." Gabe brushed some hair away from one eye, but it only came back, partly covering the scar. "He said he's been going to church with his girlfriend—Anya's her name." A smile stretched across Gabe's face, his eyes on his half-eaten slice of cake. "He's beginning to take it more seriously and has been meeting the pastor to talk about his faith and maybe baptism."

Jo smiled at that. The Christian faith may not have felt right for her, but she seemed glad Toby could feel at home in it. It showed he was finding some peace in his life despite the hell she was sure he had gone through.

"They were talking about forgiveness, and Toby said it was time he talk to me. Get rid of all those dark feelings he's been holding onto."

"That's good," Jo said around a strawberry slice. She set down her fork and sipped her lemonade. "Talk much since then?"

Gabe shook his head. "We talked a bit yesterday. He had to go because there was someone at the door. I tried calling back this morning, but all he said was that something's come up and is stressing them all—him, Anya, _and_ Charlie—and he'll get back to me later."

"I hope everything's alright." Jo's voice fell as she spoke, eyes clouding. She tucked her hair behind her ears and then combed the locks forward again.

She had always played with her hair when nervous of worried. Teddy had helped her learn not to answer everything with punches or kicks all those years ago, but Jo always needed to have something to do with her hands. If she didn't have a piece of molding clay with her—one of the few odd things she'd keep in her purse of knapsack—then she'd be wringing a napkin or piece of paper in her hands, rubbing her palms together as if playing with an imaginary lump of clay, drumming her fingers, or just playing with her hair. Sometimes all of the above.

Offering a small smile, Gabe told her, "I'm sure everything will be fine."

There was a tight feeling in his gut, but he couldn't think of anything to do unless Toby or Charlie came to him first. He had no idea how "fine" anything could be, but he'd once heard Grandpa Frank say to hope for the best while preparing for the worst. That was all Gabe _could_ do right now—hope. Looking into Jo's eyes, almost hidden by her bangs, he could see his hope, and he wondered if she could see the same thing reflected back when she looked at him.

Trying to return the smile, Jo nodded. "Yeah." She then pointed her fork at his face. "Just remember to call me as soon as one of them contacts you, 'kay?"

Allowing a small chuckle, Gabe nodded. "Of course."

**Tuesday, 5 April 2039 – Spencer**

For some time, Spencer could only stare at the red-haired PI, jaw working before he finally murmured, "That's not possible…"

"It is." Meghan's thin eyebrows kept dipping towards the center at various intervals. She'd been biting her bottom lip at each pause in her news as if unsure whether to say anything about it, or—more importantly—she couldn't decide whether any truth was held in her words. Although her job ordered objectivity, she was as notorious as her friend Deeandra (Spencer had heard some about her through Meghan) for following her intuition—and usually ending up being right.

"No." Spencer shook his head. "_Mason_? How… I could have sworn…" He swallowed, his breathing becoming shallow. "It _has_ to be her. It _has_ to be!"

As he clutched the phone, Meghan soothingly told him, "You've been searching for answers for years, _sure_ it was her." She waited a moment, watching Spencer as he tried to calm himself. "That has become your truth, so obviously any other answer would sound like a lie."

Meghan was usually good at calming others, but Spencer was shocked, angry, confused… All of those emotions he thought he'd dealt with from his wife's death flooded back, tearing up his insides and screaming through his overwrought mind. He hadn't _really_ dealt with those demons inside him. He'd just shoved them all aside into a tiny box, slamming a door over it. Only, the longer such demons were locked up, the more power they gained, bursting from that box with just the smallest bit of help, rampaging and doing quadruple the damage they would have done if fought correctly the first time around.

After a few deep breaths, Spencer allowed a small nod. Logic found truth in her statement even if his gut said otherwise.

"They actually have evidence against him?"

"He pleads guilty," Meghan responded. "The sentencing should be within a month."

"Do they have _evidence_?" Spencer repeated, the large amount of emphasis forced upon the final word making it sound more like a statement than a question. His slate-colored eyes burrowed into the PI's green ones.

"A lot from what I hear," Meghan sighed. "I can't give details—don't know them—but it really looks like he's the one. He even confessed to having framing you, and it's likely he was even able to say exactly what he did to do so. That's why I'm here. While they're going over his claims and the evidence, they're also going back over Teddy's and PJ's cases to match the information. It's very possible you'll be let out soon."

She gave a small smile, helping to spear some of those demons inside Spencer. It was hard to smile back, though, and he was sure it ended up coming out a grimace.

Now that it looked like Mason Heglin would be sentenced for Teddy's and PJ's murders as well as the Fallen Angel kills, Meghan would no longer need to investigate, so this was more of a friendly visit than anything. She let him know how his parents were doing, even though his mother had come to visit him a couple of weeks ago. Still, it was always wonderful hearing about them. It had sounded as if Paul Walsh had been as obsessed about the case as his son, things finally winding down with someone else in custody.

If Spencer's father had felt any of the same shock and apprehension about Mason being the alleged killer, Meghan didn't let on, keeping to their health and how they were already planning a family get-together. Paul was even calling his brothers and cousins, most of who still lived in England or various places in mainland Europe. Linda was calling her siblings as well, many in Colorado with a few living in Wyoming or Oregon. Paul and Linda wanted everyone coming to Denver to celebrate Spencer finally coming home, his innocence proven. It would also be a chance for the family to offer him the comfort many of them had been unable to provide before.

When he was back in his cell, Spencer took out his latest journal, just staring at the cover. A small part of him wanted to tear it up along with the others. Yet, the rest of him wanted to keep it. His gut still told him Charlie was the culprit, not Mason. Spencer may not have been especially close to the artist, but he knew how much Mason was in love with Charlie. Divorce would have done nothing to squelch those flames no matter how much he may wish for them to just die, if he wanted them to die at all.

Mason and Charlie had first met when the two were in diapers. From stories Spencer had heard, they'd met again in elementary school, Mason finally deciding that cooties didn't exist, and if they did, Charlie would be worth it. Then, she had moved, and he didn't see her again until junior high when he finally made his first move, though it had been for friendship, seeing as he'd been in a relationship at the time. They'd kept in touch after Charlie was sent to a new foster home, not returning to Denver until college.

The next part was something Spencer only speculated, but Teddy; PJ; and Jennifer, PJ's wife, had shared the same suspicion: When Charlie had first begun college, she'd had a girlfriend, Amanda. Mason, though, had wanted to be with Charlie for years and had decided he would need to act quickly. Teddy had been the first to come up with the theory that Mason had been behind Amanda "cheating" on Charlie (Teddy had suspected that the scene had been set up, but there'd been no proof of such a thing). Of course, Charlie had broken up with Amanda, and being her closest friend besides Toby, Charlie had gone straight to Mason to tell him what had happened and get some comfort. It had only been a few years later they got married.

If that was true, Mason wasn't exactly innocent, but he didn't deserve to go to jail (or, more likely, get the needle) for what his ex-wife had done. Why take the fall for her? Did his love for her really reach that far, even if there was the possibility she couldn't love him back?

As much as Spencer had begun to hate Charlie over the years after he'd come to the conclusion she was the murderer, he wouldn't deny that she might still have the capacity to love. At the very least, she _used_ to. She might very well still have that capacity but had long-since sealed it off, possibly after the incident with Amanda based on what Spencer had been told on her reaction to that betrayal (if it really was such). That sort of feeling on top of everything that had happened to her over the years?

Spencer couldn't imagine such a thing, though the inner demons seemed to be trying pretty hard to help him.

_Why am I even bothering to feel _any_ inkling of sympathy for the damned devil?_ Spencer growled in his mind, opening up the journal before closing it again and shoving it back under his pillow in an angry and anxious motion, left foot bouncing. He stared at the floor and murmured an uneasy answer to his question: "Because now I can't tell if she's the devil or not."


	25. What's the Truth?

**Chapter 25: What's the Truth?  
Wednesday, 6 April 2039 – Charlotte**

"_Worse than telling a lie is spending the rest of your life staying true to a lie." - Robert Brault_

Charlotte wanted to scream out to the heavens. She wanted to punch every surface, throw every object that could be picked up. She wanted to destroy everything in sight, eyes wild with blind rage that would finally show everyone just what kind of creature she had been transformed into.

Yet, she couldn't move. She just sat on the red divan in the upstairs loft, staring that the large bookshelf in front of her, which spanned from the doorway leading to the guest room to the corner next to the top of the staircase. All of the books were of religion and philosophy, categorized into sections and then arranged alphabetically by author's last name. Charlotte just sat on the edge of the divan, palms resting on her knees, spine erect, and gaze unwavering. There was the slightest, occasional quiver of her bottom lip, but for the most part, the woman just sat there impassively, the only show of her rage going on through her mind, where she was both safest and in greatest danger.

Within her mind, Charlotte was shrieking worse than any banshee, tearing the books from the shelf and tearing pages from the spines. Cuts formed along her fingers and hands as she worked, a flurry of white and yellow leaves fluttering about her as she screamed and howled, chucking full volumes against the walls, aiming for the paintings the object of her rage had painted at some point in the past.

Taking a break from the books, she rushed towards the paintings, breaking the wooden frames against her knees or thighs. She tore the canvas into strips, chips of oil and acrylic paint flying. She then tore down the pastel and charcoal works down, glass frames shattering and shards slicing her skin. Blood mixed with the media she tore the paper to add to the flakes already all across the wooden floor. As she ripped and tore, some of her hair would get in the way, locks at a time getting yanked from her scalp. Red quickly began to dye her roots as sandy blonde strands and a few chunks of pale skin joining the paper and glass.

"A little overdramatic, are we?" inquired a dark-haired woman as she came up the staircase, her knee-length tresses covering the majority of her pale body, which was clothed only in a short dress crafted from leaves. She leaned against the banister overlooking the stairwell, an arrogant and mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

Ceasing in her destruction, Charlotte turned with a sneer, eyes blazing.

The look only made the tall woman's plump lips twist into a smirk.

"This wasn't supposed to happen!" Charlotte screeched, eyes wide with fury and pain.

"What do you care, my child?" The woman moved her veil of hair over her left shoulder, revealing the tattoo of a snake's head on the right side of her collar bone. The snake stretched down over her breast bone, curving around her body and left leg, the tail tip on the outside of her ankle. "It does not matter once you fulfill our goal."

With a shriek, Charlotte charged for the woman, whose body exploded into mist, reforming as soon as the blonde broke through the banister and sailed to the ground. The woman's throaty laugh rang through Charlotte's ears right before a sickening **crack** shot through her skull, neck snapping and limbs splaying as if she had thought to fly.

With a blink, the scene was gone, and Charlotte was back at that edge of the divan.

"What of our deal?" sneered the dark-haired woman from Charlotte's macabre fantasy. She leaned against the bookshelf, a spark of anger in her dark eyes that shone like disks of hematite.

Not answering, Charlotte merely stared at the books. They had all let her down. None of them could tell her the truth, only opinions. She wanted the truth. She _needed_ the truth. Was there a Heaven? A Hell? Purgatory? Summerland? Nirvana? Valhalla? Niflhel? Fields of Aaru? Elysium? Tartarus?

Who was right?

What was the truth?

The woman stepped in front of Charlotte, blocking her view of the volumes. "Do not ignore me," she hissed, plump lips curling back to show her pointed teeth. She had three rows of tiny small, needle-like teeth, making her seem like a shark to Charlotte even though she had a snake tattooed on her body.

"You tried that before," the woman continued, her rows of teeth causing her words to be lisped, especially with her thin, forked tongue. "Then three years later, you fed me two more souls. You have given me six. Now I want my seventh!"

"Charlotte?"

The blonde woman turned to the sound of her brother's voice as he came up the stairs.

"Ignore him!" the woman ordered, hair flying as if they could suddenly turn into hundreds of black serpents—and they probably could.

"I'm up here," said Charlotte in a monotone, most of her concentration on ignoring Lilith.

It was true that she had failed in ignoring her after three years. The guilt of using that married couple as a sacrifice had seemed too much, but Lilith had begun to drive her absolutely mad. When Millie Schwartz had walked into the divination room, it had seemed almost as if she'd been hand-delivered to Charlotte. The card she had left in Millie's spellcraft book, The Wheel of Fortune, had been in her reading. Lilith had questioned why Charlotte would leave something behind with each kill, and she had never known—she simply felt she needed to. Now, she wondered if she had hoped someone would discover the cards. Discover them, discover her.

Toby stepped into the loft, dressed in blue scrubs. In a few more years, he'd be a surgeon, saving lives. Was he truly the only pure one left in this family? Was he meant as the small bright spot to say that God, the Divine, or whatever was up there watching, hadn't completely given up on them?

"How are you holding up?" He came to sit next to her, bright blue eyes filled with concern.

Charlotte's eyes went to the ground, ignoring Lilith as she hissed and slinked over to the banister to lean against it and glare at her.

"Charlie?"

"Not well, I guess…," she murmured. It was getting harder and harder to keep control over herself. She wanted to go on a rampage, but she just couldn't allow her younger brother to see her like that. She couldn't bear it.

Love created weak spots. Charlotte had seen that upon discovering Amanda with that other girl. She refused to allow herself to think back to that sight, but it had been the final strike to shatter the frail foundation beneath her that had been slowly chipping away ever since she was three. She couldn't love anymore, but Toby still managed to keep a firm hold on her heart in a way only a sibling could. Mason had always tried to make it into her heart but had learned to settle for simply being nearby.

Yet, only being in the same room with her soon was no longer enough. He wanted intimacy, but Charlotte could not allow that. A heart could only break so much, and each time it was put back together, there were always pieces missing, the fissures growing ever-wider.

That was why Charlotte had needed Lilith. She could finally answer Charlotte's prayers when no other deity or spirit had bothered. All she had needed were seven sacrifices: three Sons of Adam; three Daughters of Eve; and, finally, Charlotte, a child conceived of sin—Lilith's child.

But the deaths of the McGee couple had brought back all of those horrid emotions from when Charlotte had been three years of age, waking one night to some screams and the banging of a door. That terrible night where she had crept out of her room and froze at the tops of the staircase, seeing her father staring with one eye up at her, reaching for that first stair as if having tried to get up to where she'd been.

To escape his attacker? To protect his only two innocent children?

Bob Duncan wouldn't protect. He'd been a monster that had raped his own daughter, producing a second one. He couldn't have cared one bit about any of them, him or Amy, but only those two would know.

What was the truth?

Monsters had been slain, others taking their place. How often had Bob and Amy avoided mirrors? Had they even acknowledged the sort of demons they'd been? How about PJ and Teddy?

_You get used to the monster_, thought Charlotte, not knowing to whom she was directing her thoughts towards. _You keep making comparisons to make you feel better. You say 'Oh, he had longer teeth than I do' or 'Her claws had been sharper than mine'. You say their eyes had been redder, their scales more flaky, their fur more matted. You get to where you almost don't even seem like a monster to yourself anymore. It's just a part of who you are. And if you lie to yourself enough, you live the lie and the truth begins to sound false. Then lies become truths, and truths become lies._

"_Only in their head. There can only be one truth, and others would know it and correct them."_

Charlotte wasn't sure where that voice had come from, but its patient and kind tone was a blessing in comparison to Lilith's savage hiss.

_But if only _you_ know the truth_, Charlotte thought to continue the conversation,_ then there is no way of knowing which is which._

"_Well, then what should the monster do?"_

There was an apprehensive edge to the voice this time, as if it wasn't quite sure where this conversation was going, what prompted it, or what should be thought of it. It was like the keeper of the voice was bracing for the answer it might receive.

_There is only one thing _to_ do with a monster. _Charlotte turned over one hand, curing in her fingers tightly so as to make the green-blue veins running down her wrist more visible. _Slay it._

"Charlie!" Toby quickly took his sister by the shoulders to force her to turn and meet his eyes. Strands of his honey-colored hair had escaped his ponytail, falling over that thin face Charlotte both loved and feared to see. "What are you talking about? What's this about 'monsters' all of a sudden?!"

The tone of his voice showed him to have already guessed the answer but wished terribly for her to denounce it.

"You…" Charlotte's eyes widened slightly as she began to tremble, heart picking up speed. "You heard me?" she questioned in a low, timid voice.

How could he have heard her? She'd been speaking only in her mind!

Toby looked both shocked at her question and distressed that she had not yet answered him. "Yes! You were _just_ talking to me, Charlie!"

Lilith leaped from the banister, pointing at him as she sneered, "That is not Toby! See his face?! PJ has come back to haunt you! Drag you to Hell!"

At that, Charlotte jumped up from the divan, scrambling away from her brother—_which_ brother she was no longer sure—as he got to his feet, hurt and bewilderment painting his face. She didn't want to listen to Lilith anymore, but she was so confused. If this was Toby, then how had he been able to hear that conversation? Wait, he said they'd been _talking_, so he'd been that voice? But, no, she would have heard him as normal, not in her head…

She had no idea what to think, what to believe.

What was the truth?

There had to be truth. More than just what those books told her, what the mirror told her, what Lilith told her…

"Charlie—"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Charlotte shrieked, yanking her arm away from his hand. "I—!" She fell to her knees and trembled, tears letting loose even though she was trying her hardest not to sob.

"Kill him!" Lilith ordered. "He'll die just like a corporeal being—"

Charlotte whipped around, doubling over in the process but keeping her eyes on the demoness. "SHUT UP!" Her voice squeaked at the high pitch, hot tears now streaming down her reddening cheeks. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO MAKE THINGS BETTER! PUT THINGS BACK HOW THEY WERE BEFORE!"

It sounded like Toby was saying something, but Charlotte couldn't hear him over Lilith's wail:

"You wanted me to turn back time to before they died!" Lilith thundered, eyes blazing as her onyx nails grew into knife-like claws. "And in return I told you to give me seven souls! You've only given me _six_! Now finish our deal and give me my _seventh_ soul, child!"

"YOU CAN'T HAVE IT!" Charlotte howled, finding herself being lifted up by the arms. She struggled, but her captor held her firm, calling for backup. "IT'S _GONE_! IT DIED WHEN I KILLED MY BROTHER AND SISTER!"

She was dropped suddenly, hitting the ground with a heavy **thump** as Lilith gave one last sneer before dissipating. Pushing herself up onto one elbow, she looked up slightly, seeing Toby—yes, it _was_ Toby, not PJ—through her hair. His eyes were wide, mouth open, and feet slowly taking him backwards, away from her.

"T—"

"_You_ killed them?!" he roared.

She gaped at him, realizing what she'd said, but, at the same time, she felt lighter. The secret was out.

"No, it's not."

Head snapping up, Charlotte's eyes met Lilith's shiny black ones, realizing she was still sitting at the edge of the divan, not having moved since she first sat down.

"Toby is at work. Anya as well." The she-demon smirked cruelly. "You're alone here with me…" She leaned in closer, plump lips rolling back around those three rows of tiny, sharp teeth as Lilith's long black nails slowly and gently ran down Charlotte's arms. Her thin, forked tongue shot out like a snake's, running up one side of the blonde's jaw and sending chills through her body.

"I don't want to give you my soul," Charlotte whispered, unsure. She didn't move as one of Lilith's knife-like nails went to her nail, slowly moving down, barely brushing the skin exposed by the blue V-neck blouse. "I've changed my mind."

Lilith's hand stopped over where Charlotte's heart was. "You've said that before."

"I mean it this time." There was more determination in her voice.

"Oh, really?" Lilith tilted her head coyly, her dark hair sliding over part of her oval face. "Well how do you know this isn't another scene in your imagination and you have _already_ given it to me?"

Charlotte didn't respond. She still did not know what to believe.

What was the truth?


	26. Pain

**Chapter 26: Pain  
Friday, 8 April 2039 - Ivy**

"_Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable... Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals." - Martin Luther King Jr._

It was Emmett's weekend with Josef, and he sat at the table with Ivy, the two waiting for the kids to get home from school. Ivy was drinking spice tea while the father of her eldest child drank coffee, looking deeply troubled. News of the Fallen Angel being in jail was still being talked about on the news stations, and it would likely be a huge topic long after the trial, which had been set. Ivy was in just as much disbelief as Emmett, having known Mason since he was in diapers. She remembered that Mason had been a quiet kid, perfectly content to play by himself with one of his stuffed animals or in the sandbox if at the park. It had always struck Ivy as peculiar, especially the way he'd sometimes watch the other kids, never socializing, just observing. At the time, Mason's father had assured her and Emmett that he'd learn how to socialize eventually, at his own pace.

He'd been right, Mason Heglin quickly rising to the popular ranks late in elementary school. He'd been able to smile and speak just the right way to put everyone at ease, and he'd won every student election easily. Anything he'd wanted, he'd always found a way to get it.

The news only stated what had happened. No one seemed to care about the why.

What sort of motivation would drive Mason to do such horrible things? No answer appeared to Ivy, and she had to wonder if there was something else going on in the shadows.

If there was, Mason wasn't talking. That was what worried her most.

Was it blackmail? Why would he turn himself in for crimes he never committed?

"And he…?" Ivy's dark eyes stayed on her cup. It was scalding to her palms as she griped it, but she still didn't remove her hands. Pain was an old friend to her. Even after she and Raymond had finally begun speaking, crumbling that horrid mountain on the woman's back, she still wasn't completely healed. Probably never would be, and she had learned to be calmed by burns.

Emmett's eyes on her bare forearms showed he knew this well, having witnessed several of her "episodes" while they had dated. There was still a scar on his chest from when he had tried to wrench the hot poker out of her hands.

"I really don't know what to think about this," Emmett admitted, speaking into his mug of coffee. After a long sip and another moment of silence, he said, "I just want to say that it _can't_ be him." He paused. "But… all the evidence…" He shook his head, teeth clenched. "Dammit, I hate this."

Staring at her tea, Ivy had barely heard him. "Teddy… PJ…"

His dark eyes rose to that moon-shaped face.

"All these years I've been damning Spencer."

"The evidence pointed to him," Emmett offered.

"And now it points to Mason."

"They're reexamining everything."

"But who is it?"

"They'll figure it out."

"What's the truth?"

Emmett's brow furrowed in worry and irritation. "Ivy!"

Jumping, tea sloshed over the top of her cup as Ivy looked up suddenly, eyes wide. Her chin quivered. "I'm sorry… It's just…" Eyes closing, Ivy slowly shook her head as her lips pressed together firmly. She barely felt the skin on her hands beginning to blister.

"Everything will be okay," Emmett offered.

"You don't know that," Ivy whispered. "No one but the Good Lord does, and if He's really got His hand over me, I don't see it."

The man sighed. Like Raymond, he wasn't religious, though he considered himself more agnostic than anything. "You're not supposed to. That's why it's faith."

Getting up, Ivy went to wash her hands and get some napkins. "How is it you two are givin' me advice on my faith when you don't even believe it yourselves?" she muttered.

"You don't necessarily need to _have_ faith in a certain thing to know _about_ it." He took another long sip of coffee. "Besides, I have faith in other things. Like that everything will be okay. I _have_ to have faith in that. It'll eat me up inside otherwise, and I've had enough of that."

Ivy gave a shaky nod. While she had clung to her spirituality even more after that night, Emmett had eventually left it altogether. Where Ivy had seen solace and hope, Emmett had only seen damnation and pain. While Ivy had burned herself as punishment, Emmett had continually torn himself up mentally and whipped himself emotionally.

She remembered hearing him pray one night—the night after Josef had been conceived. Emmett had been a wreck, never feeling like he was good enough, that he would never be able to escape what he'd helped do. Like Ivy, he'd tried to say he'd only helped Teddy and PJ after the fact, but also like Ivy, he'd immediately beat himself up for trying to downplay his involvement, his sin. Everything he did had become sin in his eyes. He'd feel guilty if he didn't have something for the tithing basket; he'd feel guilty for not reading his bible every morning and night; he'd feel guilty about having any doubts of what the preacher or bible said…

Staring down at the sink, Ivy felt her eyes prickle as she recalled hearing Emmett's prayer from those years ago:

"_God… I don't know what You want from me. I can't go to the police… I can't… Not after all these years. But I've been feeling so damn guilty… So many days I feel like I can't take anymore… I want to say that You're the reason I find the strength to keep going, but… Every _damn_ day… I just feel so _small_…" He hiccupped, trying to keep down a sob. "Just _nothing_. That's what I am… I swear, the only reason I haven't killed myself is because dealing with my death would be a burden on my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, Ivy… I'd just be an inconvenience by doing that… So I just live… At least then I have a _chance_ at doing something good…."_

A few months after that, Emmett had finally turned away from religion and had sought solace elsewhere, realizing just how much pain he was putting himself through because of it. Ivy didn't like thinking that believing in God and Christ could be so damaging, but she would accept whatever he felt fulfilled him and provided peace. That was all she could do. That, and worry about finding her own peace.

"So you'll let me know about Mason?" inquired Ivy.

"As soon as I find out something else, I'll let you know," Emmett promised. He exhaled loudly. "My brother and his wife are falling apart because of this."

"I don't blame them," Ivy replied, coming back to the table. "It's horrible, unbelievable… I just can't believe he's guilty. I can't. I don't. There _must_ be something else!"

Emmett gave a single nod. "Yeah, but if there is, he's not talking."

"That just means they have to look harder!" Ivy insisted.

Again, he nodded. "Yeah, but it's hard with the DA breathing down their necks. If we're right, then something big would need to happen to help Mason."

**Friday, 8 April 2039 – Deeandra**

_What the hell am I missing?!_ the detective demanded as she came to a stoplight. Her mouth was in a hard line, and her brow was furrowed as she dug through her memories. She still had that gut feeling that Mason was innocent of the murders, but she couldn't find anything that even remotely gave credence to that thought!

As the light turned green, a car pulled up behind Deeandra's, stopping on a dime an inch from her bumper.

_Ugh,_ thought the brunette with a growl. _Hate drivers like that._

It looked like a red IQ, and the small car quickly passed Deeandra, causing a car going the other way honk at it due to having to stop on his brakes to avoid a crash. It made Deeandra grit her teeth. It was looking more and more like a crappy day.

Teeth still grinding when she arrived at the station, Deeandra pulled into her usual spot, freezing as a pressure seemed to gather at the crown of her head and drop down through her stomach. Her heart began to race, and right as she cut the engine, she reached for her gun and opened the door, ignoring the beeping of her car alerting her that she had left the key in the ignition. Her ears strained to hear everything around her as her eyes darted about, lips parted slightly. Some might think her paranoid, but Deeandra had learned to trust her instincts, even when they turned out to be just nerves. Better to look paranoid than end up in the morgue.

Out of the corner of her eye, Deeandra spotted a flash of golden yellow. She looked, eyes widening upon seeing a red IQ. It was a popular model, but Deeandra was sure this had been the same one from earlier.

Deeandra spotted a blonde ponytail as the person ran, rounding a corner, and without thinking, she gave chase, gun left in her holster. She thought she heard a shout from behind, but she currently only had the IQ driver in sight, heart pounding as she sprinted after the woman. After rounding the corner, Deeandra saw the woman from behind, long hair flying behind her. Her form showed she had likely done track and field at some point, and she didn't even seem to be going full-speed. It was after a couple of moments she glanced back, checking to see if she was being followed. She then bolted forward, Deeandra gritting her teeth even harder as she tried to catch up.

Chasing after her, Deeandra couldn't think of what was going on, who this person was (a face appeared in her memory, but she was currently unable to focus on a name or place she had seen this person), why she was running, or anything she should probably focus on. The heavy pressure she felt earlier seemed to be hardening, threatening to make her lunch come back up. It alerted her to danger coming, but she also just knew that the person she was after had the answers she needed. She was not going to give that up, and she had faith that whatever happened, she could handle it.

Again, she thought she heard someone shouting something from behind, but, again, she discarded the thought. All that existed was the one she was pursuing.

The woman sometimes slowed down, allowing Deeandra to catch up to nearly arm's length before suddenly making a sharp turn, almost making the detective slide a few times and fall behind. She was nimble and agile, looking more like she was floating over the ground than running. She turned down alleys, leaping over dumpsters and trashcans without hesitation or any sign of stumbling, and it was only when rounding corners did she dare another glance back to check on her pursuer. Once, Deeandra thought she saw a scowl, but it didn't register. Her legs had been growing sore, chest beginning to ache, but she barely felt it.

It seemed so suddenly that the woman stopped, whirling around as one hand made a swift movement from her hip to out in front of her. Deeandra slid to a stop upon seeing the gun, one hand paused over her own. The two women were in a parking garage, but the brunette couldn't remember all the turns they'd made to know where exactly they'd gone or how far it was from the station. It had been ballsy of the blonde to lure her from a building filled with officers and cameras all around the outside, making Deeandra think she was either crazy or _wanted_ to be found. Meeting her hard, wild gaze, she guessed it was a combination of both.

"Mason is innocent!" the woman screamed, scowl growing. Her voice was more like a bark.

_Mason Heglin's ex-wife_, Deeandra remembered. This woman had taken the news hard, but she had also had an odd air about her at the café. Too calm, voice and eyes more empty than peaceful. _I think I'm starting to see why they divorced…_.

Hands coming up in front of her with a slight tremor, Deeandra called to her, "Put the gun down, and we'll talk about this calmly."

With her panting, her voice sounded hoarse, and her hands shook as much from exhaustion as from fear. She kept her eyes on Charlotte, rather than the pistol. Her heart was pounding even harder now, inching up towards her throat.

"No!" Charlotte's hand trembled slightly, but it didn't look like enough that she'd miss upon pulling at trigger. "It's my fault!"

It felt like Deeandra's heart had fallen and skipped a beat at the same time.

"It's my fault! But you won't find anything! He won't let you! The bastard won't let you! He's _killing me and he doesn't care_!"

_Shit, she's bloody insane!_ She'd had that suspicion, but it had only been slight. Like her brother, she had merely seemed like a person trying to make it through the harsh world despite the pains it had caused her. Deeandra wasn't sure just how much pain this woman had been caused or just how deep she went, but by her growl of a voice and the shine in her eyes, she had a deep suspicion that she could pull that trigger without so much as a tug at her conscience.

"What is any of this supposed to prove?" Deeandra demanded, trying to keep her voice even and in a tone that wouldn't set her off.

Instead of responding, Charlotte's jaw set, and Deeandra's blood ran cold as the earsplitting **crack!** of a gunshot echoed through the garage.


	27. Stranger

**Chapter 27: Stranger  
Friday, 8 April 2039 – Toby**

"_All great truths begin as blasphemies." - George Bernard Shaw_

He just stared at her, blue eyes wide and shimmering as his brow wrinkled. His thin lips were parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak but was unable to catch any words that could rightfully convey what it was he was feeling. He didn't even _know_ what he was feeling. Looking through the huge window, he could only watch as his sister was operated on to get the bullet out and make sure she lived. She'd been brought in nearly an hour ago, and the bullet had come very close to her axillary artery, and Toby found himself exhaling sharply when he saw the piece of metal dropped into a bowl held up by one of the nurses.

The man pushed against the glass to hold himself up, forgetting that he wasn't the only one in the observation room. To his left was Detective Hardt, who had been in the garage when Charlotte got shot.

Toby wanted to hate her. He wanted to say this was all her fault, that _she_ should have been the one to get shot.

But he'd been told what happened. There were tapes to prove it. Her fingerprints were on the gun.

Charlie had held someone at gunpoint. She'd insinuated having something to do with those murders.

Toby had no idea what to think, what to believe.

Once, he had heard someone say that the truth did not demand belief, did not even ask for it. It just waited for the people to open their eyes and minds to it. He'd heard another say that truth was elusive, acting like it didn't want to be found; one had to work hard to discover it. Still another said that truth was relative. One said it was subjective. He'd even heard there was no truth, but if that were true, then would that statement not then be a truth, thus creating a paradox?

Whatever and however truth was, its nature continually remained a mystery, and people continually searched. Some found what they were looking for; some merely tripped and ran away upon realizing what they'd discovered; some only found snippets; and some only found new beliefs and perceptions they claimed as truth.

Toby felt like one of the people that had tripped over truth, but he couldn't run away. All he could do was ask over and over in his mind, _Why?_

Why would Charlie point a gun at someone?

Why would she have a gun in the first place?

Why would she say that Mason's incarceration was her fault?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

"There's no way she could have had any part in it…," Toby whispered, not bothering to move away the strands of blond hair that have shifted over to in front of his face. He'd already said this to Detective Hardt, but it had lost its fire, its certainty.

He doubted everything now. Could Charlie really have been lying for so long? Could he really have been so _blind_ for so long? Harder and harder, he tried to think back for any clue… _anything_ that might have shown Charlie's true nature, because, apparently, he knew absolutely nothing about her. Not if she was truly capable of such horrendous acts!

The man squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened, and his short nails dug into the meat of his palm as he clenched his right hand shut, still using the glass for support.

One of the nurses looked up at Toby, giving a thumbs-up to tell him Charlie was okay, and Toby only nodded in response.

"She never said directly that she had any part in the crimes," the detective offered. Her light brown hair was down, a bump showing that it had recently been up in a ponytail. Bangs shadowed her eyes, and she had her arms wrapped around her waist.

"What else could she be talking about?" Toby's voice was so flat, it barely sounded like a question. "Why say it's her fault?"

She'd also said that they wouldn't find everything, that Mason wouldn't let them.

Did that mean Mason had framed himself?

Some of the doctors were saying that Charlie seemed pretty unstable, and there was a possibility she'd been making things up or maybe only _imagined_ them to be real.

How much of what she said could be trusted? Had everything been an act?

What the _hell_ was going on in that brain of hers?!

Would they ever know what was true?

**Saturday, 9 April 2039 – Charlotte**

_Tick… Tock… Tick... Tock… Tick…_

Tea time! Tea time!

Sit down! Sit down! Sit down!

_Clink!_

Pinkies up! Mommy always said real ladies drank tea with their pinkies up!

Up! Up, Mrs. Snuggles!

High-pitched giggles, the imaginings of hot tea passing through those pink lips when it was actually no more than air.

_Cre-e-e-a-a-a-k…_

Daddy still hadn't fixed the door.

The little girl turned, that huge, mirthful grin dropping in an instant.

Teddy? Teddy covered in… blood?

No, it was PJ. PJ was covered in blood.

Haunted eyes. A bat stained in red.

A scream and splash.

No, no splash. There had never been any real tea to splash.

PJ was gone. The door was closed. The confused little girl turned around again and shrieked, jumping away from the small, round table, only to knock it and her chair over as she fell. Her tiara fell, and her feather boa was thrown over towards the bed.

The tea party guests were gone. There were only bodies, beaten, carved into, pale, bloody, or warped to where the person was indistinguishable.

"_YOU DID THIS!"_ a voice hissed from nowhere, and the little girl broke down in tears, wailing as she hugged herself, face in her light tan carpet.

Warm, sticky liquid began to trickle over her body, and she screamed more, the sound deafening and the force feeling like it was ripping through her vocal cords. Her eyes stung and burned, and she couldn't stop trembling. She couldn't even comprehend what was happening. All the toddler knew was fear. Fear and helplessness.

And… betrayal.

Charlotte's eyes flew open, seeing the large full moon above. Stars were scattered across the inky sky, shadows looming as the girl, nearing twenty, looked around.

_Tweet! Tweet!_

A step forward as the girl pulled her long hair back into a ponytail.

_Snap!_

Several of the nearby birds flew off.

The flashlight Charlotte had had was busted. She'd discarded it and used only the light of the moon to lead the way.

_Cra-a-a-w-w-w-w! A-a-a-h-h-w-w! Ah-w!_

The raven's croak sent a shiver down Charlotte's spine, and she jumped when another sooty bird answered the first. More joined in, almost as if they were laughing at the girl, knowing what she would find.

Ravens were said to be one of the most intelligent birds. Some even associated them with foresight. Did they see something in the girl's future? Something they knew would cause her pain? Were they laughing at her or trying to warn her?

_Tick tick tick tick tick…_

The pocket watch around Charlotte's neck seemed to be in pace with her heart, but it probably would not be long before the watch's tempo fell behind her heart's.

_Step. Crunch. Shift. Step. Crunch. Shift._

The girl's breath came out faster as she headed for the cabin, only wanting to see Amanda. She was about two years older with shoulder length dark brown hair, pale grey eyes that could only be compared to the moon, and a wide smile that could brighten anyone's day. She had lifted Charlotte up onto her feet, reminding her that she really did have strength with her. She was patient. She was kind. She never envied. She never boasted or was proud. She would never dare dishonor another. She was not self-seeking, easy to anger, or kept any record of wrongs. She rejoiced in truth, finding no pleasure in any form of evil.

She protected what goodness Charlotte had been able to keep. She taught her to trust and hope again. Mostly, she helped her persevere, refusing to give up on life as she had thought so many times.

Amanda was love.

_Step. Crunch. Shift. Step. Crunch. Shift._

There was the cabin.

_Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Babumpbabumpbabumpbabumpbabu mp…_

A scream, but not of horror. A moan, but…

There had never been woods. No cabin.

It was a storage room on the campus.

_Cre-e-e-e-e-a-a-a-a-a-k._

Just like the door Daddy had never fixed.

Blood. Bat. PJ.

Wire. Teddy.

No, they weren't there.

The door hit the wall with a heavy thump.

That olive-toned face… deep-set eyes half-lidded… hair a mess, much of it sticking to her sweat-coated face, neck, and broad shoulders… Moans… a gasp… a guy over her… both unclothed… guy's amber eyes full of heat… hers closing, brow wrinkling… another gasp as the guy made another thrust…

A deep gasp, not from the brown-haired girl, but from the blonde one at the door.

Hands clinging to the frame. Air refusing to go down her windpipe. Grey-green-blue eyes wide and chin trembling.

No. Nonononononononono!

She crawled away, then ran.

Love had never existed. Only pain.

_Tick tick tick beep… tock… tick… tick beep tick… tock… beep tick tick tick… tock…_

What was that noise?

Mommy? Daddy?

Darkness. Shaking. Fear.

Nightmares. Horrible nightmares.

Mommy! Daddy!

_Beep… beep… beep…_

_Tick… Tock… Tick…_

Tea time?

No, lights were out. Sleep.

No sleep. Nightmares. Blood. Bat. Wire. Cross. Dark angel. Fear. Guilt. Rage. Betrayal. Hatred. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

Truth. Find truth.

Turn back time.

Lilith.

Did she turn back time?

_Beep… beep… beep…_

What was that sound?

Charlotte's eyes snapped open, the fluorescent light blinding her. She was thirty-three years of age. She'd been shot. Lilith still hadn't gotten her soul.

What soul?

The soul she'd never had. Never been granted. She was only a breathing corpse. Why not just die?

She was scared.

"Charlie?"

Scared. Filled with fear.

What if she was wrong? What if she did have a soul?

If she did, it was lost now. Belonging either to Lilith or Lucifer.

"Charlie?"

She wouldn't respond. Couldn't. Couldn't move. Not even blink. Was she dying? She wasn't sure what to think of that.

Except one thing: _I'll finally get to see the truth_.

**Saturday, 9 April 2039 – Toby**

She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, lips parted slightly.

Toby tried for the third time: "Charlie?"

Finally, she blinked, lids moving slowly as if she had to remember how to move them. She blinked twice more, faster this time, but that seemed to be the only way she would move.

Coming in after Toby was Anya, Detective Hardt waiting outside with Gabe, Jo, and Detective Kurosawa. The detectives wanted to ask Charlie some questions, but they were allowing Toby to speak to her first, keep her calm. Anya was there for moral support.

_Keep her calm?_ Toby thought, _she won't even speak!_

"Charlie," he said, stepping up to her bedside and trying not to pay attention to the handcuffs securing her to the bed, "it's me, Toby."

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

"What?" he prompted, right arm twitching slightly as his breathing became shallow. "Charlie, you're okay now—"

"DON'T LIE TO ME!" she shrieked suddenly, eyes squeezing shut and body flying up as her limbs flailed. She roared at finding that she'd been confined, and her heart rate spiked as she yanked at it, cuts beginning to form in her wrist. "DON'T LIE! MOMMY! DADDY! _MOMMY_!"

Eyes wide, Toby backed up as nurses rushed into the room, one ordering for diazepam. Charlie fought against them, screaming about demons and monsters. She also kept screaming about souls and someone named 'Lilith'. Toby could only stare, not knowing what to think, what to feel, how to react.

This woman wasn't his sister. She couldn't be. Charlie had always been calm and collected. She had always been polite and proper, hardly ever raising her voice to anyone.

This screaming, thrashing… _thing_… could not be Charlie M. Duncan.

"I'm sorry…," the thing cried as the drugs began to calm her down, lulling her towards sleep. "I'm… sorry… I… I didn't… want to…"

Her entire body shook, and tears soaked her face, hair, and pillow. After a moment, Toby realized his own face was damp as well.

"Charlie…"

"Charlie's dead!" She gave another thrash, the nurses trying to hold her down and get her to sleep. "She's dead! She's dead!"

That was all that echoed through Toby's head as two nurses ushered him and Anya out of the room.


	28. Live

**Chapter 28: Live  
Sunday 10, April 2039 – Gabe**

"_God is growing bitter, He envies man his mortality." - Jacques Rigaut_

There was no divine plan.

If there was, there'd be no such thing as free will, right? But then, free will didn't exist past the extent of the environment, or so that was what Gabe had read in a book on psychology while in juvie.

How could so many things in the world be random yet fit together unless there was some higher power keeping the ends tied together in an intricate weave no mortal could ever hope to comprehend?

Questions, always so many questions humans have been asking since they learned to even ask.

Standing there in front of their graves, Gabe could see the flowers Charlie had left yesterday before turning the Duncans' world upside-down once again. How were any of them supposed to figure out which direction was which after having their lives twisted so many times?

The flowers were Easter lilies, the thick, too-white petals of the trumpet-shaped blooms already beginning to wither at the tips. Sometimes Gabe wondered if the people bringing plastic bouquets had the right idea. Nothing lasted forever, but they didn't die like regular flowers, staying vibrant for maybe a few weeks or months if nature was willing to play nice, maybe only a few days if she was in a sadistic mood. They were full of life, only to slowly wither away just like the bodies beneath them. It was almost cruel, but Gabe figured seeing fake blossoms day after day would be even more so.

Trying to trick life and death, when those two entities knew every trick, every turn, and every cheat. They allowed such acts, laughing when mortals thought they had found a way around nature's design. The two could be peaceful, but they could also be violent. They could be caring, but they could also be cruel. Such was the way the cosmos had been made, and such was the way they needed to be.

Or that was what Gabe sometimes told himself.

Standing there, he thought that sometimes he only told himself that because he wanted order to be formed out of chaos. He wanted purpose; he wanted to know that there was comfort _somewhere_, if not on Earth. That one day, he could reach it. That maybe Teddy and PJ were already there.

Maybe his mom and dad as well. Did either of them deserve bliss after what they'd chosen in life?

"What does anyone deserve?"

The whispered words were torn apart in the short gust of wind as if nature couldn't have such talk in a place that called for respect, whether real or not. Respect, grief… even a touch of anger was alright within a certain context. There couldn't be talk of what the dead deserved, only the comforting phrase of them being "in a better place."

It was a phrase Gabe had always had trouble not grimacing at. How did any of them know? Did any of them actually believe any of it? In Gabe's case, the only people he'd really say this to him were counselors. Rosaria and one of the bible-study leaders at Jake's and Heather's church may have said it at some point as well.

Knowing what his parents had done, what PJ and Teddy had done…

What Charlie _claimed_ to have done…

It was more like a sharp flinch this time when Gabe shook his head, hands shaking slightly in his pockets and breathing becoming shallow as he stared at the votive candles he had placed on the two graves.

_She didn't do it. She didn't do it. She didn't do it._

It just couldn't be her. All the evidence pointed to Mason. Charlie had seemed incredibly unhinged when Gabe had been at the hospital yesterday. She'd screamed and fought the nurses, and the thought made Gabe feel…

What did he feel?

What did he know?

Only what he'd been told, barely fitting together with what he had seen with his own eyes.

Mason was a killer. Charlie said it was her. Bob, Amy, PJ, and Teddy were all dead. Diddlebock was dead. His killer still walked, tormented as he wondered about the truth.

No one was innocent, yet they were victims.

_Why do I keep thinking about all this shit?_ Gabe wondered, taking a few deep breaths and wandering past the angel statue to the graves of his parents.

He wasn't Socrates. He wasn't Friedrich Nietzsche. He wasn't Jean-Paul Sartre or Lao Tzu.

Attempting to wrap his mind over the natures of the mind and/or soul, reality, or mortality did nothing but make his head and chest hurt. It only made him realize just how small he was, how much he didn't know, and how much he could never know. He could only know what he saw, told had happened, told what existed.

There was life, there was death; there was love, there was hate; there was passion, there was apathy; there was light, there was darkness; there was hope, there was despair.

That was how all was seen, and what had been seen, been beaten into the psyche for so many years, could not be unseen. All that existed were the poles, forever stagnant, unwilling—_unable_—to ever change.

Only ideas had the ability to shift as new information was discovered, was shown as fact. Yet, such a shift was petrifying.

Gabe didn't want Mason to be a murderer. He had first met him when the man had been but an infant, posed against the girl he would one day marry in a baby race. Taking the information of Mason as the Fallen Angel as fact also meant taking in the fact that his younger sister and brother had been close to a murderer, the one that had murdered their older siblings.

Gabe didn't want Charlie to be a murderer. She was his baby sister, whom he had hated, laughed at, realized she wasn't so bad, loved, and wanted to protect. As bad as it was thinking Mason was capable of killing PJ and Teddy, thinking the killer could have been sweet, little Charlie was so much worse, it made Gabe's stomach twist, threatening to shove anything it might have up as his heart thundered and head pounded. It made his hands shake and legs feel weak as his vision blurred—from the spinning of his mind or tears, he was never sure.

Both "facts" looked like nothing more than cruel, tortuous fantasy. Neither could be true. It hurt too much.

There were Easter lilies on Bob's and Amy's graves as well. They were supposed to represent death and rebirth, from what Gabe remembered from Sunday school. That was what this whole day was supposed to be about for a large population of people. He was supposed to attend an evening service with Toby and Anya today, and Jo had agreed to go as well. She had tried for the joke about going to church when she was studying Judaism, but Gabe had only managed a lopsided smile in response.

He could say that him and Toby creating a good relationship was proof that the world hadn't completely fell apart, but as Gabe looked at his parents' headstones, he could only wonder if the world ever really fell apart or if it was all part of that "plan" he had long gotten sick of hearing about. The world was full of poles, but there were many, many tiny grey threads filling in all that extra space, connecting everything and everyone. The thing about threads was that they could be very breakable, but they could be replaced or repaired, and when woven with many other threads, they could become incredibly strong.

Plan or free will, fate or coincidence, Gabe didn't necessarily see how it mattered one way or another. He'd learned that all he could do is deal with what he had, make the best of what he had, change what he was able, try not to worry about what he wasn't, and just _live_.

It was that easy and that difficult.

He took the two other votive candles in his bag and placed each on a grave, lighting them with the lighter in his pocket. "Happy Easter."

There was another gust of wind at Gabe's words, but it felt more like a breeze whispering promises of warmer weather soon to come. And maybe some peace along with it. Some happiness. Clarity.

That was all Gabe wished for, but he didn't want to linger on what was missing. He'd been taught things could only be taken a step at a time, moment to moment. Time didn't like bending to a person's will.

Eyes lifting up and turning in the direction of Diddlebock's grave, Gabe's lips stretched, but not into a smile. It wasn't necessarily a frown, either. He had told Jo he'd forgiven the old bastard, but Diddlebock's crime wasn't his to forgive, he figured. Also, was it really forgiveness if all he really did was refuse to let himself agonize over what had happened in the past?

That was only for Gabe's sake, not the man lying six feet beneath the dirt. For him, nothing more could be done. Did Gabe feel guilty? It was Mrs. Diddlebock's face, twisted in grief, shock, fury, and disbelief that plagued his memories, not Bob Diddlebock's corpse.

_Charlie couldn't kill all those people_, Gabe told himself. _I… I know her_. He had to know her. He was her brother! _She… She couldn't do it._

He wasn't sure of his own thoughts, but he could become sure in time. Saying something over and over again didn't make it truth, but he didn't know what the truth _was_. All he knew was that, right now, it looked like Mason would be going to prison (and likely death row), and Charlie would be sent to a psychiatric hospital.

_No matter what that truth is, my family's still fucked up_.

Walking out of the cemetery, Gabe took out his cellphone. It was just past nine. Jo should have gotten off work about an hour ago and would be sleeping until about three or four, maybe five if she'd forgotten to set her alarm. It was hard for her and Gabe to meet up with her on graveyard shift at her work, but they tried, and she hoped to get better hours later on.

She was doing what she could to be there for Gabe, but he wasn't sure how any of it could be helped.

_Ugh!_ he thought, mentally scolding himself as he headed back to his apartment. _Remember: moment to moment. You can't just change everything to how you want it to be. It'll just drain you and make you feel even worse._

Gabe drew in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly let it out. He did this three times, thinking he'd text Toby about meeting up for lunch today. They both deserved something peaceful, especially today. Everything was part of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. That couldn't be changed, but it didn't have to be—it shouldn't. It was an easy, yet still difficult, truth. Gabe could grasp that. He could take the small truths.

And as he gathered all the small truths as he lived and worked, maybe then the big ones wouldn't seem quite as domineering anymore.

Maybe he could find himself in a place where he could stop questioning, stop endlessly wondering, doubting, examining…

And just live.


	29. Epilogue: Rebirth

**Epilogue: Rebirth  
Sunday, 4 April 2040**

"_The spirit of the universe is an invisible and subtle essence. That is Reality. That is the Self. You are that." - Chandogya Upanishad_

**Ivy**

Rachel had cried at first, and Josef had complained about changing schools and had asked about when he'd be able to see Emmett. Ivy had known uprooting would have been hard—her own heart skipped into a gallop at the very thought—but it was something she and Raymond needed, and both had agreed that the kids would benefit greatly as Ivy chipped away at the shell she had created and became the mother she longed to be for them.

Both had discussed the move with Emmett and Tori, and it was decided that Josef would stay with Emmett on various holidays and breaks. It had taken a while to get the schedule written out, but the four had quickly reached an agreement that made them all and Josef happy.

Tucson, Arizona was a huge change from Denver, and the first few months had been filled with Rachel complaining about the heat and Josef doing the same with a comment here and exaggerated action there. Raymond had gotten a good job at one of the hospitals, and Ivy loved the beautiful house. She hadn't been overly fond of the heat at first, but not having to bundle up each winter had been heavenly. It still made Ivy laugh when she thought back to how her parents would tease her about her oversensitivity to cold weather when both sides of the family had been living in that area for several generations.

The nightmares still came, but the woman now had her husband to speak to about them. She was continuously throwing up those rocks of hers to God, refusing to let that mountain rebuild.

Sitting on the back deck, Ivy smiled wide as she watched Josef teach his little sister how to dive. Raymond came out with iced tea, laughing as Ivy gasped when Rachel changed her mind at the last second, splashing with a belly-flop rather than the dive her brother had executed just moments earlier.

"Oh, my baby!" Ivy nearly knocked the tray of tea over as she rushed over to Rachel, who quickly came up, breaking through the water with a gasp, immediately followed by a scream.

It was hard to tell whether the water pouring over her face was from the pool or whether she was crying, but Ivy jumped in, forgetting that she was still wearing her zebra-print sarong over her purple swimsuit. Josef was clinging to the edge of the pool, having to hold himself up as he guffawed, and Ivy sang to her daughter as she brought her over towards the shallow end of the oval-shaped pool.

"Is she alright?" called Raymond, though the way he lounged on the chair showed he knew the answer. Whereas Ivy had become the doting mother that bordered on smothering, he still stayed fairly laid-back, allowing his children to learn to pick themselves up and brush themselves off.

"She's fine," Ivy called back, holding Rachel close, her cooing turning into a chuckle. "Oh, baby, you scared me. Deep breaths now, you're okay." She wiped away the little girl's tears.

"I don't wanna dive anymore."

"You didn't dive at all in the first place!" said Josef as he swam over to the shallow end, using a side-stroke. "So you can't exactly quit."

Rachel stuck her tongue out at him as Ivy shot him a look.

"Just sayin'." Josef got out of the pool and headed back to the diving board. "Watch me again, Rachel! If you can't dive, the other girls will make fun of you at the swimming parties."

"No they won't!" Rachel shouted at him, something flashing across her dark eyes. It made Ivy smile, remembering that look well. She'd seen it in the mirror many times when she'd been young, preparing herself to show everyone up and prove them wrong.

"They'll call you a baby!" Josef taunted before executing another dive. When he popped back up, he did a backstroke towards the ladder, teasing in a childish voice, "'Rachel's a baby! Rachel's a baby!'"

"I am not!" shouted the six-year-old, scrambling out of Ivy's arms and out of the pool. She then hurried towards the diving board.

"No running!" scolded Raymond and Ivy in unison.

Josef kept up the taunting, Ivy shaking her head as she caught on to what he was doing. He was being hard on Rachel to get her to try again, get better. It was like how Ivy was getting better, how she had practically been reborn. Maybe all that "born again" stuff had nothing to do with renewing faith and all to do with taking charge of life and allowing things to fall where they fell without letting it all pile into a mountain of torment. Once Ivy had done that, faith had renewed itself and followed, now a pleasure rather than just another burden or something she was trying to force onto herself out of guilt.

As Ivy watched Rachel take a deep breath, getting ready to dive, she saw herself, throwing away that stupid bat for good and feeling lighter, yet stronger, than she had in years.

Rachel ran forward without hesitation and jumped hard, her brother becoming silent as he watched with a triumphant smile.

The girl leaned her head down, letting her arms guide her…

And ended up going too far, landing on her back in another flop.

This time all three of them laughed, Ivy shaking her head as she moved forward to retrieve her daughter. _Everything requires work, after all_.

**Spencer**

Freedom.

It was something Spencer couldn't take for granted anymore. Reading books and watching movies where the main character would think about how the sun seemed brighter, the colors more vivid… Ever since getting out of prison, that no longer sounded like poetic-like ramblings.

Yet, there was still the prison of his mind. For so long, he had been so sure his wife's murderer had been Charlie, but it was Mason now in prison. Last he'd heard of Charlie, she'd been getting treatment at a psychiatric hospital for paranoid schizophrenia. He still wanted to believe that he had been right. Something in his gut told him so, but there was no proof.

She, Mason, or both had hid it too well. Either way, she was locked up for threatening an officer, and as Spencer's father had explained, one of the reasons so few people tried the insanity plea was that they could then be locked up for much longer than they would as compared to a regular sentence. Charlie would be in that hospital until she was deemed safe to send back to society, and if Spencer was right about her, that would be never.

Sitting in the living room of his townhouse, Spencer read a book on his tablet, trying to concentrate on the story. It was a sci-fi, a genre he had always loved, though he had always kept it hidden in high school. His high grades and place on the debate team may have kept him from being a stereotypical jock, but his love for science fiction probably would have made him stand out too much against his teammates. Many of them had joked on him enough about having once been on the chess team when he was in middle school—his mother's idea, he'd always been quick to point out.

While reading about how the station suddenly came under attack, an alert appeared at the bottom right corner of the screen. Smiling at the name, Spencer tapped on the alert and turned his tablet onto the side as he lifted it up in front of his face.

Coming onto the screen was his mother, her silver hair—she'd given up on dying it years ago—pinned back in a loose bun. The lines around her eyes and mouth deepened as she smiled. Linda Walsh aged with grace, but the tremor in her right hand as she waved showed the arthritis plaguing her, and Paul had confided in Spencer that it was looking like her memory was beginning to wane.

That thought made Spencer's smile turn sad, and it had been that news that had made him want to stay in Denver, but both Linda and Paul had urged him to chase after that job in Boston. He could visit any time his schedule allowed, and his mother would sooner be shoved into a home than have her son go through any sort of suffering on her behalf. They were getting things together to follow him anyway; there was nothing left in Denver for them, not after everything.

Life moved on, and after hearing that for the nth time, Spencer had finally agreed.

"Hey sweetie!" Linda sang, marble green eyes sparkling with mirth. The strain in her red-painted mouth showed she missed Spencer, but she and Paul would be moving soon.

"Hey, Mom!" Spencer still felt amazed that he had the ability to see his mother without there being bulletproof glass between them. "How's the move?"

"Wonderful, now that your father has finally stopped arguing with every realtor in Denver." The woman's laugh sounded husky, and it was contagious, Spencer unable to keep himself from laughing with her. "Work going well?"

"Quite a bit of stress, but nothing I can't handle."

"Of course not. You're a Walsh, after all." The smile fell slightly, a new gleam coming to her eyes. "You feeling well, sweetie?"

Spencer took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no lying to his mother. He'd gotten that hammered into his mind from a very young age. "I'm not sure if it'll get any easier, but I'm trying." His voice fell, dark eyes going to the tan carpet. "I never stop thinking about her."

"Well, as much as that girl adored being the center of attention, I know she would not want you feeling low because of her." Linda's eyes shimmered, showing how much she had loved Teddy and her antics, despite a few incidents when the two had been getting to know one-another. "She loved you so much. I saw that every time I saw her. She had a brilliant smile, and she was always able to coax one out of you even when I couldn't."

Spencer hadn't told anyone of Teddy's confession, and while he had to wonder just how many of those smiles were real, he knew that there was absolute truth in his mother's words. No matter the darkness that had weighed Teddy down, Spencer just knew that it hadn't completely squashed their love. It made Spencer want to say what he'd heard in fairytales and rom-coms (which Teddy had always sat him through) throughout his life: Love conquered all.

Yet, love wasn't always quite as pure as everyone wanted to believe. Spencer knew that, but when he thought back on those moments shared between him and his wife, he could _not_ tell himself that there had been anything impure about their love. There were so many levels of it, there was no way any of the pain Teddy shouldered could have tainted them all.

Spencer's lips turned up into the smallest of smiles. "Her favorite verse was Thessalonians five-fifteen: 'Always be happy.'"

"And don't forget about the verse right after that," Linda reminded him.

"'Never cease praying,'" they recited together.

"Happy Easter, sweetie." Linda's smile was back to full power.

Again, it was contagious. Spencer was unable to not return the beautiful gesture that was always so full of hope and love. "Happy Easter, Mom."

**Gabe**

It was nice holding her hand, looking into those eyes he couldn't stop from comparing to wet sand—and getting smacked upside the head for it, forcing the two into a round of laughter.

Jo had cut her hair again several months ago and had to go to the salon regularly for trimming. She had tried growing it out again last August, but Gabe had seen her some nights, just staring at the locks of her lustrous locks when they had grown past her shoulders. She'd tie her hair back all the time, had nearly destroyed her hair with all the dye. It had made the woman at the salon gasp and tsk before cutting away and helping Jo get her hair restored back to health.

Gabe had to admit that Jo looked happier with shorter hair, and as long as she was happy, he wouldn't have cared if she had dyed it black and started wearing heavy eyeliner and eyebrow- , lip-, and nose piercings.

Turning his head away from the pot on the stove, Gabe watched as Jo stared down an empty canvas, going over the composition for a new painting in her mind. She wore loose jeans and a baggy blue t-shirt, and there were dark blue spots and streaks on her face and long neck as well as in a few places of her pixie cut (Gabe had joked that it was about the same length as his hair), which was chestnut-brown with streaks of light auburn. Even through her back was to him, he knew that her bangs (side-swept and on the long side) were falling over her eyes, the rest of her hair still spiky from a fight with her pillow—she still didn't always sleep well, though she also wasn't always ready to admit as much to Gabe.

Both of them were still working everything out in their own lives, but they were also doing it together. Jo had him attending Temple with her most times, the man happy to go. He was still on what he called an eclectic path, still practicing those meditations Stefan Blackhawk had taught him, and he kept the rosary beads Leo had given to him and the Bible Skylar had given to him when he attended church with Toby's baptism. He read it from time to time and had begun praying on the rosary pretty regularly. It was calming and helped bring peace of mind and a reminder that Gabe didn't have to be alone.

He didn't visit the cemetery every morning anymore, but he still liked to visit once and a while, and he still lit candles, though usually in his apartment rather than in the cemetery now. Like with the rosary, it helped remind him that peace could be reached.

On the counter next to Gabe was an open book about shamanism. He would likely never apprentice and become an actual shaman, but there were many people who still incorporated the practice into their own lives. Jo had asked him once if he thought that it could be seen as insulting when he wasn't Native American, but he'd answered that there had been shamans all over the world. Also, while there was blood ancestry, there was also geographic ancestry. He saw his studying as bringing honor to the latter in a way, and if it brought him inner peace, how was it insulting? He was also a non-Catholic praying on a rosary, and he had also recently picked up a book on Zen Buddhism.

The talks about spirituality were interesting between the two, and Gabe smiled as he remembered how Jo had flung some red paint at him when he had said her saying a prayer wasn't much different from a practitioner of witchcraft casting a spell.

"You better not be burning anything!" shouted Jo suddenly as she turned the canvas on its side on the easel her cousin, Diane, had built for her.

Stirring the French onion soup as he read, Gabe called back, "Pretty sure I can handle soup, Jo."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't put it past you burning water, stupid." Her words became more distant as the sentence wore on, and Gabe turned, smiling as he watched her get her paints ready.

Every day was a new day to heal, and as Gabe glanced over at his girlfriend as she began to fling yellows, oranges, and reds at the canvas, he just knew that no matter what shadows threatened to creep up on them, the two could fight against them together.

**Deeandra**

She'd been speaking to Emerson in her mind less and less ever since the Fallen Angel case, only short conversations coming here and there when she was alone.

She still thought that Mason Heglin was innocent (to a degree at least), but her gut could never hold up in court—only evidence could. As for the Copycat Killer, the FBI had taken over, and Kurosawa hadn't bothered to fight to stay on it. There was more than enough work for him either way. Last Deeandra had heard, there were a few suspects, but nothing held up so far. Deeandra's parents were back in Denver not long after Mason's arrest had been announced, and the detective had wanted to tell her mother all that had happened and what she suspected.

Of course, Debbie had heard all about the incident with Charlotte, and the older woman had shook as she hugged her daughter tightly, saying how she hadn't been able to believe it. She had told Deeandra that she and Charlotte had once played together as toddlers, and she remembered seeing her again several years later in Deeandra's Sunday school class.

It had been chilling to hear about that, and the woman had spent a long while trying to dig up memories. The best she could recall was some time ago—she didn't remember her exact age, but it had been when she had first begun to question Christianity and its veracity—when a girl asked about if God was good why He allowed pain and suffering in the world. It was a question Deeandra herself had struggled with when continuously asking herself the "God question" and had hesitantly responded that she thought God allowed such darkness because it balanced out the light. People knew happiness because they knew sorrow. They knew bliss because they knew grief. They knew good because they knew evil.

Thinking back, Deeandra had thought it sounded just like the type of answer a sheltered child like her would have thought up of, but she thought she remembered the girl thinking that over intently and finally nodding in agreement. She might have been blonde, but Deeandra didn't necessarily remember for sure. Still, to know she'd been so close to that woman at some point in her life… That they had once, even for a short while, been friends…

Deeandra wasn't quite sure what to think of it.

"_I've always said you think too much."_

"Oh, look who's back." Sitting alone in her house, Deeandra didn't care about answering Emerson aloud. There was no one around to hear, wonder, or judge, anyway.

"_Always been here. Figment of your imagination and all that."_ He gave a chuckle, and the woman could clearly see his blue eyes sparkle. _"So you've been spending some time with Virgil. You sure attract men with classic authors' names, huh?"_

"Not you too," Deeandra groaned, combing through her hair with her fingers. She had recently gotten it trimmed so that it fell only an inch below her shoulders. She was also growing out her bangs, which were pinned back by a clip. She took a sip of her coffee only to balk at the fact she had let it get cold.

"_Well, Raindrop, you can't save the world and work magic so every bad guy gets put away and no innocent has to die, but you _can_ work on yourself. I believe my mother has said so much herself."_

"Many times," Deeandra sighed, taking her mug of coffee to the microwave. "What of it?"

"_Well, you know sorrow, you know grief. It's time to know happiness and bliss again."_

Ah, he was using her own words against her. "Not sure if I can."

He made a 'tsk-tsk' sound._ "You used to be the first raindrop on many of my parades. Stop being the downpour that keeps yours from happening."_

Exhaling sharply, Deeandra waited for her coffee to heat up when her mobile began to vibrate. She went back into the living room to retrieve it from the coffee table, seeing "Kurosawa" light up on the screen. Her cheeks began to heat as her heart picked up speed as she slid her thumb over the green button to answer.

"Hey." The microwave trilled, but she ignored it for the moment.

"Hey." There was a smile to his voice; Deeandra could see it clearly in her mind. "My mom's putting together a big dinner tonight for Easter. My brother, his fiancé, and my sister and her husband are coming. Would you like to come?"

Staring at the incense smoke as it lifted like her heart, Deeandra gave a soft smile. "I'd love to."

**Toby**

It always felt like there was a war going on inside Toby's heart whenever he thought about going to visit Charlotte. She may not have been charged with any murders, but he still saw that wild look in her eyes from when she'd been in the hospital, screaming before the nurses could subdue her. As those feral, green-grey-blue eyes locked onto his, Toby had seen that she could be capable of such a horrid act. He had refused to admit it to himself, and he hated that it had been that look—_his sister's face_—that _haunted_ him in so many nightmares that had him bolting up in a cold sweat.

Getting out of his car, Toby ran a hand through his sand-blond hair, which he had gotten cut fairly short and parted at the side. The semi-warm breeze pushed some strands over Toby's brilliant blue eyes, and he sighed and slammed his car door shut.

After handing over his keys and wallet to the woman at the front desk and pinning the visitor's tag to the front of his button-up shirt, Toby was led to the visiting area, where he spotted Charlotte sitting on a couch, reading Ian McEwan's _Atonement_. It seemed almost too fitting, and he wondered if she had read it multiple times in the past. He often saw her reading, and like the past times he had come to visit, she simply read on when he sat down on the couch, keeping some distance from her as he waited.

After carefully setting the book down onto the arm of the couch so that it stayed open to where she was, she turned to face her brother, face kept in a practiced, placid look. Toby had been working hard to try and discern which of her expressions were true or act, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that for years, he had had absolutely _no_ idea something was wrong with her.

"_Why is your sister just staring at the tree like that?"_

"_Oh, that's just Charlie."_

Anything that seemed "off" to others, Toby had immediately written them off as some sort of idiosyncrasy. How on Earth could he possibly be so dense?!

"I like your new haircut."

She'd seen it already, but Toby just smiled and nodded in thanks.

She took a lock of her own sandy-blond hair between her thumb and forefinger. "I don't like mine being so short, though." She gave a small pout.

The tresses that had once cascaded down to her waist had been chopped off just above Charlotte's shoulders when she'd been admitted.

"It suits you," Toby assured, wondering if their conversations would ever cease to be so awkward. _Probably not. She… I still don't want to believe it. I… I don't think I _can_._

He couldn't take her haunting him so when she had once been the only person he felt he could trust wholly and completely. It was like a slap in the face, a betrayal. He didn't want her to be so unstable, so capable of what she had claimed to have done. Since that time in the hospital, she hadn't spoken of being the Fallen Angel again. Whenever the subject had been brought up, she had only ever either stayed quiet or whispered, "It's a lost cause."

Maybe it was just her that was the lost cause.

_No,_ Toby told himself firmly. _I can't think that. I can _never_ think that._

No matter what may happen to prove that as true, he knew that it would only break him even more to take such a horrible thought as fact.

Charlotte's small smile returned, oblivious to her brother's internal battle. "Thank you. How is Anya? I wish I could've attended the wedding."

Last May, Anya had proposed, and they had gotten married in December.

"Well, and I wish so too." It was getting harder to keep smiling. "How have you been doing?"

Charlotte's eyes began to wander around the room. "My doctor wants to try a different medicine. The one I had before represses my appetite too much."

Toby gave a nod. He remembered hearing how the nurses had had to force-feed her. "The sessions are good?"

"No."

The bluntness made Toby blink in surprise.

"But I have an idea." Her eyes went back to Toby, sparkling as her smile grew. It made a cold sensation slither down his spine.

"An… idea? For what?"

Her eyes closed as her smile grew in a childish way, her head tilting to the left. "For us to all be happy!"


End file.
